


Game - Set - Match: Game

by jin_fenghuang



Series: Game - Set - Match [1]
Category: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, ds9 - Fandom
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Secret Relationship, season one, season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 69,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jin_fenghuang/pseuds/jin_fenghuang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bashir made such an 'interesting new friend' at Quark's, his interest is piqued and he decides that the game Garak started is far from over. What could be more interesting than spying on a spy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story starts in season one, shortly after the episode "Babel" and follows the events of the show up to (currently) season two.
> 
> Later chapters will contain explicit content. 
> 
> A huge Thank You to Cadesama for the beta!

This station really was marvelous! Bashir was sitting on the upper level at Quark's, watching the crowd over his PADD. The Bajoran history he had been reading long forgotten. He stared at the throng of species walking by with unmasked curiosity. Xenobiology had always been his favorite subject and to think that he was sitting here now, on a Bajoran space station right at the doorstep to the Gamma Quadrant.

Bashir took a sip of his Tarkalean tea and grimaced. The replicators were still 6.8% off. Not within lethal range for most Alpha Quadrant species – Bashir swirled his tea in his mug – the worst he'd have to deal with later in the infirmary were a couple of upset stomachs and with some luck he'd get the opportunity to add a new species to his medical database.

Surely, the Chief would get around to fixing the replicators soon. All they needed was a quick recalibration of the recipe-buffers' rematerialization subroutine; nothing that Bashir couldn't do himself in 4.35 minutes.

Bashir took a contemplating look at his tea and put the mug back down. He sighed inwardly. He was a doctor and doctors didn't fix replicators. No matter how much he wanted a decent cup of tea. It would be suspicious.

He was about to start reading again when he noticed, with excitement, a Bajoran couple he didn't recognize walking down the promenade. They must be new to the station. He picked up his PADD and made note of their height and build. Bajorans really were quite amazing and to think that the Federation had barely any data on them! He counted five ridges on the man's nose and six on the woman's, adding the data to his list.

He reveled in the sheer amount of raw data he had collected since his arrival on the station, wondering what secrets it would reveal once he'd finished collecting and analyzing it. The idea of being able to freely research and write as many descriptive papers as he wanted without being suspected of anything but being a workaholic was one of the things that had appealed to him about this post. To think that he'd gotten a wormhole and a whole new quadrant dropped into his lap – Bashir grinned at his PADD – this was what he had dreamed of when he'd joined Starfleet, what he was willing to live a lie for.

One of the Bajoran Dabo girls smiled at him, meeting his eyes over the heads of her gambling customers. Bashir winked at her and smiled back. He watched her spin the Dabo wheel and marveled at her appearance. That a species that had evolved from a reptilian ancestor could look so mammalian was quite fascinating and those nose ridges really were most adorable. She blushed under his gaze and he was certain that his 'medical final' line would work just as well on Bajoran women as it had on any other species he'd encountered.

Speaking of extraordinary alien species, Bashir sat up straight at the sight of two familiar figures. He watched Lieutenant Dax walk by the Dabo tables in deep conversation with Commander Sisko. Bashir rested his head on his hands and sighed, giving Dax a dreamy look. The Trill, especially the joined Trill, were endlessly fascinating and Jadzia was especially so. To think of all the memories and skills she had access to! They had achieved as a joined species, via biological means, what human genetic engineering only dreamed of and Bashir felt a kinship with her that surpassed the, admittedly not to be downplayed, physical attraction.

He was about to get up and butt in, trying to engage her in conversation and gamble on the 27% chance of her agreeing to have dinner with him, when he noticed something peculiar: Out of the corner of his right eye, at 105 degrees, which would have been out of the field of vision of a normal human, Garak was standing partially concealed by the shadows of a bulkhead. 

That plain and not so simple tailor was watching him watch Dax and Sisko. Bashir felt a thrill running down his spine. This was almost like the opening to one of his favorite holo-novels. The way the man was standing in the shadows and, Bashir turned his head, scratching a non-existent itch on his neck, yes, moved to stay just out of Bashir's field of vision confirmed his suspicion that it was on purpose.

For a Cardassian, he seemed to know an awful lot about human physiological traits, especially for someone who claimed to be a tailor. The whole situation was just too exciting and Bashir felt smug that it proved that he had been right about Garak being a spy. That Commander Sisko had dismissed him so thoroughly when Bashir had first reported Garak making contact still stung and Bashir could not help but gloat, even internally. Spying on a spy, could it get better than that?

He put on his best innocent smile and flipped through the files on his PADD for the article he had meant to read, then settled comfortably in his chair angling his PADD so that the reflection would enable him to watch Garak watching him.

Let the game begin. 

–::–

Bashir stifled a yawn as he ran his tri-corder over his patient a final time. When the scan showed no abnormal readings, he announced her healthy and ready to be discharged. He stretched his back before starting to put away the medical instruments, letting his mind wander while performing the routine tasks.

 The last couple of days had been exhilarating. Curing a bio-engineered virus had challenged him, pushed him past his limits in the most exciting, thrilling way. And now that the aphasia-virus was under control, he finally had the time to take a moment and look back at the brilliant work he had done. He really always did his best work under pressure.

Something moved outside the infirmary, just at the edge of his enhanced field of vision and Bashir craned his neck, hoping to get a glance of his resident stalker before the door automatically closed behind his patient. The shadows outside the door were empty. Bashir yawned again as he turned from the door to put away his tri-corder. It was most disappointing. After that promising start at Quark's he had only caught sight of Garak once.

Garak! Bashir stopped dead in his tracks. Had someone gotten around to giving him the antidote? He didn't remember the Cardassian coming to the infirmary to get his antidote hypospray. Bashir ran a hand through his hair, frowning. The virus had been specifically created to target Cardassians and since most of his staff was Bajoran and with the way most Bajorans felt about them, Bashir'd not be –

"Computer, antidote status on resident Garak, Cardassian."

_Resident Garak received antidote at oh-seven hundred hours thirty minutes._

Bashir let out the breath he'd been holding. He quite enjoyed the little cat and mouse game he'd started with the Cardassian spy. It would have been disappointing to have it end that quickly. The only odd thing was that Bashir didn't remember the tailor coming to the infirmary. There was a 3.9% chance that he'd missed him during the short break he'd taken around that time, but he dismissed this idea as implausible. Suddenly suspicious he called on the computer again.

"Computer, who administered the aphasia-virus antidote to Garak?"

_That information is not on file._

He called on the computer again, but the result stayed the same.

There was no data as to who had given Garak the cure. That was not just odd, that was very obviously odd. His nurses kept very meticulous notes. Garak must have managed to fake or alter the entry somehow. But why leave such a glaring gap? It would have been easy for Garak to avoid suspicion; he simple would have to add one of the nurses' names and no one would have been the wiser. Well, no one but Bashir. An enhanced intellect was good for something. That the name was missing was a clear indicator that Garak wanted to be caught. How utterly exciting!

Suddenly not tired at all anymore Bashir grinned as he put his tri-corder into his bag. It seemed that it was time to check up on this particular patient personally. 

–::–

 It wasn't a long walk over to  where the Cardassian's business was located on the Promenade. Bashir admitted to himself that it would have taken just a few minutes to stop by the Security Office and inform Odo of the alleged hacking into the medical records, but then, where would be the fun in that? He didn't need a genetically enhanced IQ to know that if he involved the Constable, his game would come to a sudden and rather dull end. Besides, Bashir rationalized, no harm had been done and he could always report Garak for hacking the files later.

So there he was, at the proverbial lion's den – hmm, perhaps dragon's lair suited better? Bashir fiddled with his tri-corder for a moment, adjusting settings that were already perfect.

Bashir was nearly vibrating with excitement. He felt giddy like a schoolboy and tried fight the foolish grin that was starting to hurt his face. This was really happening!

Dignified, he reminded himself, squaring his shoulders and smoothing his face into what he hoped was a stoic expression. He had to be dignified and smooth, just like he'd practiced in his holo-novels. This time he was going to be the one calling the shots, not Garak. He wouldn't let the Cardassian catch him off guard like when they'd first met.

The lighting in the shop was set to 74% of the station standard making it appear gloomy and mysterious from the outside. Coming in from the well-lit corridor it would take most species a few moments to adjust to the darkness. Bashir surveyed the shop through the glass doors and admired the clever set-up that gave the tailor a clear advantage toward any opponent entering that way. Not a plain and simple tailor at all. Bashir felt a shiver run down his spine, enjoying the thrill of potential danger. It made him feel like he was just about to walk into one of his favorite noir set-ups.

Bashir took a deep breath and stepped within the range of the door-sensors. The doors opened smoothly and Bashir was greeted by surprisingly warm air.

"Ah, Doctor, what a pleasure!" At the back of the shop Garak looked up from behind his console, sounding genuinely happy to see Bashir. "Do come in."

"You look in remarkable health, Mr Garak." Bashir stalked over to him, leaning sideways onto the tailor's table with one hand. It was a little too short to do so comfortably but it did put him in great looming position.

"Why thank you, Doctor." Garak smiled up at him. He didn't seem not intimidated, but rather amused. "That is kind of you to say."

"You know why I'm here," Bashir tried again, holding the Cardassian's gaze.

"Oh yes, of course." Garak's smile slid from innocent to sly. "And I must say you have exquisite timing."

"I, eh, do?" Smooth Julian, Bashir berated himself at being thrown off guard so easily by the Cardassian's piercing blue stare. This was not going as planned.

"Oh yes, indeed." Garak got up and pulled a length of shimmering, brown fabric out from one of the display racks. "I just received a new shipment of red Andorian silk."

He walked over to Bashir and started draping the luxurious fabric over Bashir's shoulder.

"That's not–" Bashir looked from the tailor to the fabric and back.

"If I may be so bold..." The tailor's hand found the small of Bashir's back and pushed him toward one of the changing room mirrors. "This particular shade of red is most flattering to your complexion."

"But, Garak–" Bashir caught himself staring at the fabric wondering how anyone could call that particular shade of brown red? Did Cardassians have full spectral color vision? But then remembered why he was here and pulled the fabric off his shoulder with an annoyed huff, handing it back.

Don't let him distract you. You can't let him run all over you like last time.

"That's not why I'm here, Garak." Bashir squared his shoulders and assumed his no-nonsense medical professional pose, tri-corder at the ready. "I _am_ here to check up on you, to make sure there are no side-effects to the antidote you self-administered."

"That is most kind of you," Garak's polite smile never wavered as he stepped out of scanner range. "But truly unnecessary. I assure you, Doctor that I'm in perfect health."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Bashir followed the retreating Cardassian until he had him trapped against his table, glaring down his nose at the shorter man. Yes, this is it, Bashir thought triumphantly. I'm the one in charge.

Bashir's eyes lingered on the thin, delicate line of scales that ran up the Cardassian's nose and ended in an upside down tear-drop on his forehead, noting with fascination that the scales seemed to be overlapping and ever so slightly iridescent. Bashir wondered for a brief moment if there was a polite way to ask if he could touch them. Would they be soft and smooth like a snake's skin or sharp like the ridges on an iguana? 

"If you insist." Garak's smile widened and he licked his lips, the tip of his tongue peeking out as if tasting the air and Bashir had the distinct, sudden and unsettling feeling of being the prey.

They were mere inches apart and Garak had to tilt his head backward to meet his eyes.

"Doctor."

"Eh, yes?"

Bashir swallowed hard and took a step back, realizing just how close they had been standing. He had to regain control of the situation. This was ridiculous. Holding his tri-corder at arms length he started scanning the now unresisting tailor's vital signs, the familiarity of the action putting him more at ease.

Body temperature of 31C, pulse at 23 BPM and no trace of the virus; the only curious reading was a rather high endorphin level. Interesting.

"You broke into my files, didn't you?" Bashir asked, not looking up from his tri-corder. Noting with satisfaction the tiniest pulse increase at the statement. Gotcha.

"But why would a simple tailor do such a thing?" Garak's voice was the model of innocent outrage.

"Because you, Mr Garak, are no plain and simple tailor."

Bashir, enjoying the banter, raised his tri-corder again, trying to get a second, more detailed scan of the Cardassian's cranial functions when Garak's hand gently but firmly closed around his wrist, disrupting his scan, pulling his hand down and away.

"What a nice thing to say, Doctor. I do take pride in the quality of my workmanship." His hand lingered on Bashir's wrist and Bashir felt his own pulse quicken at that unexpected contact. "But I think this will suffice."

The tailor's hand felt cool and smooth, nearly but not quite like human skin. Bashir shivered. It felt good.

"Uhm, yes, I think it will." Annoyed at himself Bashir pulled his hand away with a bit more force than necessary, trying to look at anything but Garak. His gaze fell on the Cardassian's worktable.

"Are those your own designs?"

Half hidden under what seemed to be design sketches for a Bajoran wedding dress was a handwritten note in Cardassian. Bashir cursed his unpreparedness; he had only memorized enough written Cardassian to be able to operate their medical consoles. He made a mental note to access a learning program as soon as he got back to his quarters. For now his eidetic memory would have to suffice. He'd ask the computer to translate it for him later.

"Why, yes they are." Garak gave him a curious glance before picking up the stack of designs, effectively hiding the handwritten note underneath. "I had no idea that you're interested in Bajoran fashion, my dear Doctor."

"I'm interested in many things," Bashir hedged, blushing furiously as he realized what he'd just insinuated. "But, uhm, now that I know you're in good health…"

"Yes, Doctor? What now that I'm in good health?" Garak advanced on him, and Bashir licked his lips.

This was a bad idea, Bashir told himself, and stepped forward. A dangerous, stupid bad idea and yet he–

Then the door opened and a Bajoran couple entered, and suddenly there was more than two feet between them and Garak was smiling his best customer service smile, leaving Bashir dazed and forgotten in the background.

Not sure if he's missed an opportunity or dodged the proverbial bullet, Bashir made his escape.

He had a note to translate!

–::–

Bashir sat in his quarters and drew the note from memory, feeling more than a bit smug. He had to give it to Garak, handwritten communication, it really was rather ingenious. If it had been on a PADD the Universal Translator would have been able to translate it for him instantly, but with pen on paper, you'd have to be able to read Cardassian handwriting. Clever, Garak, clever, but not clever enough.

Bashir finished sketching out the small part of the note he'd seen. "Computer, translate note."

 

_Antidote successful –_

_ready for –_

_arranged soon –_

_doctor –_

 

So, Garak had not only broken into his files and his office, he had also passed that information on to Cardassia Prime, or planned on doing so soon. Bashir pondered on what to do.

Was the Cardassians getting the formula for the antidote really a problem? The aphasia-virus was specifically tailored to primarily targeted Cardassians and if it got loose on the planet it would cause a pandemic. Bashir frowned, there really was no ethical way of keeping the antidote from them and as much as it pained him to admit it, he was not sure if Starfleet would have let them have it had they asked nicely. He played through the scenarios in his mind, and at best there was a 43.8% chance of Starfleet denying Cardassia access to the information.

If he alerted Starfleet –and by extension, since they were on a Bajoran station the Provisional Government– he'd just give them time to modify the aphasia-virus into a new weapon.

Making up his mind he deleted the note from his PADD. He would not be part of any future biological warfare.

–::–

Bashir was sitting alone at his usual table in the replimat. His next shift was not starting for nearly an hour and he'd already finished his lunch. Lingering over his dessert, he was trying to read the book about the Bajoran war hero Li Nalas one of the nurses had given him.

He didn't particularly mind eating lunch alone. And it wasn't as if he was alone, alone. With the wormhole bringing trade to Bajor, the station was pretty crowded these days. Currently there was a ship docked at every pylon, and no empty table in sight. Besides the resident Bajorans, he recognized groups of Bolians, Miradorns, and even some Petarians. It was rather exciting.

Bashir took a bite of his Tuwaly pie and grimaced. He really should thank the Chief for not fixing the replicators yet. In the last couple of days he'd gotten to treat species he'd only ever seen in holo-simulations at med-school and he had, in the process, collected enough data for at least two full research papers.

But – Bashir looked at the empty chair across from him and sighed. Being silent for long periods of time really wasn't in his nature. It wasn't that he was lonely, per se. Bashir grinned. After all he was meeting a certain Dabo girl after his afternoon shift, and there were plenty of people around. It was just– someone to talk to about something other than tri-corder readings and duty rosters would have been nice.

Bashir drank the last of his tea and watched the diners over the rim of his PADD. As stimulating as he found his job, back at Starfleet Academy it had been much easier to socialize without having to commit to a friendship. After that awkward lunch with Sisko, Bashir'd decided to save his pride and just eat lunch alone for a while. Finding the balance between the need to keep up his cover-persona and not totally alienating the people around him was always a delicate maneuver.

But – there was that but again. To put it simply: He was bored. It had been way too long since he'd had a good game of racquetball. Finding a challenging racquetball partner would be nice, the holosuite simulations were never quite the same. As far as he was aware the only other person who'd mentioned playing was Chief O'Brien. And while annoying him was highly entertaining, the man really had no sense of humor at all, giving him a heart attack would be less so. Still, he was the only other player and maybe – maybe the man was fitter than he looked. He'd definitely insist on a physical first.

Bashir poked at his Tuwaly Pie again, admitting to himself that he didn't much care for the flavor. But it had been recommended to him as a traditional Bajoran dessert and he liked to get into the spirit of things when reading. It was kind of fitting, Bashir thought, that he didn't care much for the book either. 

He skimmed the next chapter. The resistance leader the book described in repetitive purple prose had managed feats that ranged from hard to believe to simply impossible. Bashir rolled his eyes at the text. While he did not begrudge the Bajorans their mythical hero, the flowery language was a bit much. There even was bad poetry. According to the recounting, Li Nalas had single-handedly fought and won countless battles against whole battalions of Cardassian soldiers. The tale reminded him not a little of the myth of King Arthur, the hero the people wished they'd had in these uncertain times. He wondered briefly if Li Nalas had a sister and smirked at the idea.

When he looked back up he noticed Garak maneuvering the tables with a full lunch tray, futilely looking for a place to sit in the busy replimat. The lunch crowd had not cleared out yet and no one seemed to be willing to share a table with the Cardassian.

Bashir put his PADD down, scooting his chair back enthusiastically. A conversation with the Cardassian spy was definitely going to be more interesting than another chapter singing Li Nalas' praise.

"Garak!" Bashir waved at the man from across the replimat, pointing at the empty chair once he had the tailor's attention. Several of the Bajorans were giving him the evil-eye but Bashir didn't care. This was way too much fun to pass up.

"Ah, Doctor," Garak greeted him with a friendly smile, as he put down his tray. "How very kind of you to share your table."

"Think nothing of it." Bashir craned his neck at Garak's lunch, greenish chunks of what looked to be some kind of vegetable in a steaming white sauce. "I hope you don't mind that I've already eaten. What are you having?"

"Not at all, and your company is more than welcome." Garak picked up his spoon and winked at him. "This is Zabu stew. The replicators do much better with Cardassian dishes." He pointed his spoon at Bashir's half eaten dessert. "As you surely will agree."

"Anything you can recommend?" Bashir stood up, nodding toward the replicators. "I'd feel less like intruding."

"Try the red-leaf tea, I am sure you will enjoy it."

When he got back with a steaming cup, Garak had picked up his PADD reading that dreadful biography.

"I hope you don't mind." Garak gave him a winning smile and scooted the PADD back over to Bashir. "I couldn't help notice. My, Doctor, I must say I'm impressed. I didn't know you could read Bajoran."

Bashir cursed himself inwardly for leaving his PADD on the table for Garak to snoop, but smiled regardless.

"I felt that since this is a Bajoran station, I should make the effort."

"Very commendable." The tailor continued eating his stew. "What is it you're reading?"

Bashir leaned closer, conspiratorially, and whispered, "The most unauthorized biography of Li Nalas, hero extraordinaire."

Garak snorted. "How utterly fascinating."

"You wouldn't have read this particular work, would you?" Bashir asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. He'd been dying to give color-commentary on some of the more outrageous bits and since Garak was Cardassian, and not Bajoran, he wouldn't be offended if Bashir voiced his uncensored opinion about this particular piece of _literature_.

"I regret my taste in fiction does not usually lean toward the overdramatic." Garak gave him an amused little smile. "But I am sure it has its merits."

Bashir snorted. "You have no idea."

"Then perhaps you can enlighten me?" Garak raised one eye-ridge at Bashir. "If it is that entertaining?"

"Let me show you one of the better poems." Bashir considered doing a dramatic reading, but since there were several groups of Bajorans still in the replimat, and that would cause with 99% certainty a brawl, he decided against it. Instead, he scooted his PADD over for the tailor to see.

Garak peered at the PADD, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Oh my, that's unfortunate. In what dialect does that rhyme?"

"So you do read Bajoran, too." Bashir felt smug. "That must come in handy as a spy."

"My dear Doctor, this atrocious work of fiction must have affected your mind." Garak looked at him with an expression of hurt innocence that Bashir didn't buy for one second. "I am but a simple tailor who has to deal with handwritten notes from customers."

"Ha!" Knowing very well that all he'd get from the Cardassian was another evasion if he pressed, Bashir turned back to his PADD scrolling back to a section he'd bookmarked earlier.

He didn't notice how much time had passed until nurse Jabara called him on his com-link asking if he'd been delayed by an emergency. Thoroughly trashing that book with Garak had been tremendous fun. He hadn't been aware just how much he'd missed intellectual conversations like this until he found himself laughing at the Cardassian's snide remarks and clever quips.

As he hastened back to the infirmary his mind was already coming up with several different ways to continue their little game. Bashir grinned, he really had made an interesting friend. 


	2. Chapter 2

He just couldn't believe O'Brien. Or Sisko for that matter! Bashir huffed at his bio-sample, holding it up against the light to check its progress. They'd made first contact with a new sentient species, from the Gamma Quadrant no less, and neither had bothered to have the Tosk checked out at the infirmary. What a wasted opportunity.

 Bashir slid the sample back into the incubator. It would need another 12.4 hours before any results could be analyzed.

He set the alarm for the computer to notify him and, as he turned back to his workstation, he picked up the PADD someone had left for him right on top of the console. Assuming that it was the immunization report Nurse Sarish had said she'd finish this afternoon, he turned it on. When it blinked to life, Bashir squinted at it for a second in puzzlement .

_Summary, Development Aid: Bajor 2319-2369_

_–Glinn Nokesh_

Glinn who? What the – Then he put the pieces together: Garak, of course! Bashir's delight slid into a frown. How had Garak snuck in here without him noticing? 

Bashir glared at the PADD and then snorted. A Cardassian history about the occupation. His plain and simple friend did have a peculiar sense of humor, especially given the subject of their last book discussion. Bashir had to admit it was funny, in a mildly offensive kind of way.

He put the PADD away. It would not do to let his Bajoran staff see this particular gift of _fiction_.

And while it annoyed him that the spy, and really there was no denying that Garak was one when he pulled stunts like this, had managed to get past his genetically enhanced senses, it thrilled him that Garak felt it necessary to impress him.

This game was getting interesting and the next move was his!

-::-

Bashir was waiting in line at the replicator to get himself a nice cup of Tarkalean tea to sip while people watching. You'd never know what interesting alien species might stop by on their way to the wormhole.

His next shift was not to begin for another twenty minutes and as he was walking back to his table, mug in hand, he noticed Chief O'Brien still in line, a couple of customers  back from the replicator.

"Late lunch?" Bashir gave the man a small friendly smile as he carried his tea past him. 

"Yes, Sir." O'Brien nodded and stepped up to take his turn.

Bashir sat down and leaned sideways on the back of his chair watching the diners. He took a sip of his tea and smiled, regretting not getting some sticky-toffee pudding for dessert after all. He'd known the station's chief engineer would figure out what was wrong with the replicators sooner or later.

He watched O'Brien carry his tray in Bashir's direction and since the replimat was still rather busy he made room for the Chief to come share his table. Bashir held his tea up to his nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled like tea again. Finally. The replicators being just that tiny bit off had been grating on his nerves. He'd definitely have to thank the man for fixing them and while he was at it, maybe he'd get an opportunity to ask about a game of racquetball. It would be nice to play against a live opponent for once.

Bashir was about to raise his mug and address O'Brien in greeting, when to his surprise O'Brien carried his tray past him and sat down two tables away from Bashir, with his back turned. That he had walked by without so much as acknowledging Bashir's presence stung, but before he could dwell on whether O'Brien had deliberately snubbed him or was expecting company, someone cleared her throat. Bashir looked up. Someone very pretty.

"Doctor Bashir?" A blond Bajoran woman holding a blue replicator cup was standing next to his table, fidgeting a little. "Do you mind if I sit down, it's awfully crowded today."

"Please!" Bashir smiled at her and then remembered. He'd fixed her sprained ankle a couple of days ago. "Chalan Celes, isn't it?" And at her nod and pleased blush that he'd remembered her name Bashir continued, "How is that ankle doing?"

"Good as new, all thanks to you." She smiled at him through lowered lashes. "You are a talented doctor. Treating so many different species, it must be really challenging."

Ah, this is where this is going. Bashir smiled, not objecting one bit. Those Bajoran noses really were most adorable and he had a theory on them being an erogenous zone. A theory that he wouldn't mind testing at all. Exploring the eroticism of a different species had always been a huge turn on for him. Bashir leaned close, noting that she did the same.

Bashir held her eyes for a moment. "Would you like to hear about the toughest battle in my career?"

-::-

"Computer: end _Bashir, personal log_." 

Bashir ran a hand over his face, gently pressing his palm down on his eyes to relieve the tension settling there.

By now he'd pretty much perfected the mask that was the unenhanced but brilliant doctor Julian Bashir. It had taken him several years to get it just right, it had become so right in fact that he himself sometimes forgot that he was not a normal person. It was actually quite complex and Bashir prided himself having figured out just how long something should take, what tasks he could perform outside of his medical expertise and when to purposefully fail at something to keep up the necessary illusion.

But today not even his before bedtime routine of recording his daily 'struggles' to help him remember what it meant to be a normal person, did anything to prod his body back into its normal sleep pattern. 

Julian turned away from his console and started pacing up and down his quarters. He'd already done a double shift at the infirmary to make up for the two solid days he'd slept thanks to Q. He sat down on his sofa, only to get back right up and start pacing again. He walked over to the window, and pressed his hands against the transparent aluminum, staring out into the darkness to the exact coordinates of the wormhole. He knew full well that no ship was scheduled to go through the wormhole for another eight point four-seven minutes, unless – Bashir's heart rate went up at the mere thought –  unless someone was coming through the wormhole from the other side to make first contact. He wanted to go through that wormhole and see all that lay beyond so badly he could taste it.

He stared at the blackness of space a little longer, dreaming of all the wonders that lay beyond the wormhole, then sighed at the unfairness of Q cheating him out of that opportunity and walked over to the replicator. Maybe a cup of tea would help calm him. It was worth a try, he'd tried about everything else. 

"Computer: Tarkalean tea, extra sweet." He took the mug from his replicator and carried it over to the coffee table. 

He should be tired and it wasn't as if he couldn't feel the pleasant burn of well deserved exhaustion in is his muscles. He'd run a full exercise program on the holosuite – won not just one, but two games of racquetball against the current Federation champion – and yet here he was at o-four hundred hours, hair damp from the luxury of a hot-water shower –the replicators were working properly for once–, ready to go to bed but instead of feeling sleepy he felt wide awake. 

Propping his feet up on the table, he glared at his mug. How was it that he had once again missed out on an exciting new species from the Gama Quadrant? First the Tosk and now a magnificent energy being. He'd watched the footage from the station log a dozen times, but it just wasn't the same. Something – fate, the Prophets, Q – had to be conspiring against him. 

"Well, we can be sure about the Q part, can't we?" Bashir addressed Kukalaka who was sitting on his bed through the door . He had to admit, though, that he was a bit flattered that an omnipotent being considered him serious competition, but because of that bastard he'd never even gotten a chance to charm details about the Gamma Quadrant out of Vash, never mind that most promising date. And, to add insult to injury, he was wide awake at this ungodly hour. 

He picked up the PADD Garak had given him and settled on his sofa. He might as well use the time insomnia had _gifted_ him.

When he scrolled down to the text it turned out to be in Standard, which was a bit disappointing since he'd just finished the last of the Cardassian learning modules.

Then it dawned on him that this meant that Garak was not onto him, had no idea what he was capable of, and he grinned. Bashir took another sip of his tea and turned his head to watch the wormhole flare to life right on schedule, marveling at the stunning display. Even Bashir's better than normal eyesight could not make out the tiny Bajoran probe entering the wormhole but he could see it all vividly in his imagination. One day he'd travel through that wormhole himself, but for now he reveled in being a step ahead of the Cardassian spy. The swirling colors faded to black as the wormhole closed and Bashir turned his attention back to the book, feeling smug.

-::- 

Bashir tapped the bottom of his PADD, turning to page 58 only to find another table with troop movements and yawned. He'd read the first 57 pages, hoping that the book would switch to narrative at one point, but so far it hadn't. He stifled another yawn. It seemed, Bashir thought and chuckled to himself, that Cardassia took the exact opposite approach to history to Bajor. The book Garak had given him consisted entirely out of tables and lists, with only very brief summaries of battles and political decrees interspersing the rows and rows of numbers. And while he was grateful that there were no ballads singing the praise of heroes or mighty victories, he usually preferred more excitement than dry facts in his non work-related reading.

Bashir read a couple more pages then yawned and flipped through the rest of the book without reading and yawned again. Deciding that it was time he went to bed, he closed his PADD. If nothing else this book definitely was a cure for his insomnia.

-::-

The atmosphere at Quark was pleasant. Most of the tables were filled with Bajorans, 47% of whom Bashir had never seen before. The new data points they represented would increase his knowledge about their species considerably. Their arrival could not have been better timed, surely some would stop by the infirmary. He'd just started analyzing the data he'd collected over the last couple of weeks and had found that he was lacking data on certain blood types.

The influx of new Bajoran residents and the overall more relaxed mood was a welcome change from the tense undercurrent that had filled Deep Space Nine when he'd arrived. In his opinion, Bajor needed to embrace the new beginning that they had fought so hard for. The past would still be there tomorrow. If they dwelled on it and let it limit them and their choices, they'd never see the future they'd dreamed of.

Bashir had turned off his universal translator, listening to the hubbub of alien tongues coming from the bar below. He could identify most of them and speak the majority. There was the expected Bajoran, Ferengi and Standard with a few odd ones from visitors thrown in. And of course the melodic sound of Trill. Bashir watched Dax talking animatedly to Quark from his table at the upper level of the bar sighed. Jadzia was one of the few people he'd ever met that truly didn't judge others. She really was everything he'd ever dreamt of in a partner. Smart, funny, kind, beautiful and now he'd found out that she not only could keep a secret but had a few of her own. Surely she'd not – and then there was her devotion to Enina Tandro. Bashir had to admire her for that. Admire and envy, if he was honest.

He pushed his plate away to be able to lean closer to the railing, rested his chin on his hands and sighed again. He had to be back on duty in seventeen minutes, but if he wanted to just stop by her table and say a quick hallo he'd have to wait a couple of minutes more. It would not do to appear too desperate.

From his vantage point he could almost make out the adorable spots that ran down the side of her neck. One day he'd like to trail kisses down her skin, following their path. One day he'd win her over, after all his chance had increased to 26.8% after the trial. 

She turned her head in his general direction and he leaned back, not wanting her to think he was stalking her. She smiled at something Quark said and turned her attention back to him. She had the most perfect smile. And the most perfect blue eyes and however stupid risking her life for a past life's love was, it was also utterly, heart wrenchingly romantic. Risking your life to protect the one you love, unasked. He'd do it for her at the drop of a head. Bashir gave a wistful glance at the empty chair across from him. If only given the chance. 

A slow susurrus went through the patrons, like a pebble thrown into a pond, disturbing the up to then jovial atmosphere. Bashir craned his neck, searching for the source of the disturbance and then felt stupid. By the way the Bajorans started talking to each other in hushed voices Bashir should have known that it had to be Garak.

Bashir absentmindedly pulled out the datarod he'd been carrying on him for the last couple of days in the vain hope of accidentally running into the Cardassian. He was still part of the Academy's book club mailing list – he really should remember to get back in touch with the cute Andorian who ran it – and after the fun he and Garak had had ripping into that Bajoran biography, hearing the Cardassian's sharp tongue have a go at this particular literary work had struck him as something that would be a lot of fun.

As soon as Garak sat down on the lower level, the susurrus became a tsunami. Bashir watched Garak place an order with one of the Ferengi waiters, Garak giving the man a pleasant smile with a calm that had to be fake. The ring of silence grew around the Cardassian as the tables closest to him emptied, leaving him alone in a crowd of people. Bashir had to admire the man's self-control. Garak didn't budge. He sat at his table, smiling pleasantly, an unreadable expression on his face and. but for a minute twitch of the other man's eye when someone walking by hissed profanity in Bajoran at him, Bashir would not have suspected that the man was even aware of what was happening around him.

Bashir watched Garak reach into his pocket and casually pull out what had to be some kind of Cardassian medical equipment. Garak held it to his forehead and not just his posture, but his expression changed. What had been a perfectly constructed mask of indifference relaxed and settled into the truly charming smile Bashir had come to associate with the spy. 

Garak accepted the glass from the waiter with high spirits, chatting amiable with the the Ferengi, making Bashir wonder what exactly he'd applied to his forehead. Probably a vasoconstrictor. He sympathized, and while he did not, on general principle approve of people self-administering medicine, that kind of animosity would give anyone a headache.

Bashir fiddled with the datarod, eyes darting between Dax and Garak and the empty chair across from him. 

Making a decision, he switched his universal translator back on, got up and climbed down the narrow winding stairs to the lower level. Dax was happily gossiping with Quark and Garak looked like he could do with a bit of cheering up. Bashir tossed the datarod in the air, catching it with a grin on his face. He always enjoyed a chat with their resident spy. 

"Garak!" Bashir hovered next to the table, looking down at the Cardassian. At any other time he'd made a quip about the tailor being a spy, but right now it didn't feel right. He settled for: "How are you?"

"Oh, my dear Doctor," the tailor put down the brightly colored drink he'd ordered, gifting him with a smile that bordered on the belligerent. "What a pleasant surprise." He gestured at the empty chair with his glass. "Do sit down."

Bashir slid into the chair, and folded his hands on the table to keep himself from fidgeting, suddenly at a loss for what to say. "Uhm – I'm nearly finished with the PADD you left for me."

"How wonderful. You must let me know what you think when you're done." Garak took another sip from his glass. "Are you going to join me for a drink, Doctor?"

"Sadly my shift is about to begin," Bashir eyed whatever it was Garak had ordered. Drinking alone was not a good habit to get into. "But another time perhaps?"

"Ah, of course, and I shall look forward to that." There was a moment of silence and Bashir started to squirm under the Cardassian's piercing gaze. Did the man have to stare at him smiling like he was about to get his favorite dessert? It was most unnerving. Bashir tried to release some of his nervousness by fiddling with the datarod, holding it between his thumb and middle-finger, pushing it up and down, tapping it on the table.

Suddenly, the tailor's hand shot out and covered Bashir's with his own. Bashir gasped at the cool, unexpected contact and looked up only to see his own surprise and pleasure echoed in Garak's eyes.

"My dear Doctor, were you planning on giving _it_ to me here?" Garak gave him a sly smile, chuckling slightly as if amused by his own joke, "Or would you like to go somewhere more _private_?"

"What?" Bashir's eyes widened, sure that he'd not imagined the innuendo.

"The datarod you've been fiddling with for the last five minutes." Garak's hand tightened around his, making Bashir swallow audibly.

"Uh, yes." Bashir licked his lips, hyperaware of Garak's touch. He gulped around the words, his throat suddenly dry. How did Garak manage to do this to him every single time?

Garak's thumb wormed itself between Bashir's fingers and palm, tracing gently prying Bashir's hand open. Garak held his gaze, the tips of his fingers burning on Bashir's palm.

"Thank you, my dear. Very thoughtful" Bashir gasped as Garak's cool thumb ran over his palm, tracing his heart-line, as he plucked the datarod right out of his hand with sure fingers. "May I ask what's on it?"

Bashir pulled his hand away as if burned. This was getting out of control. He had to take charge. What was wrong with him? It was not as if this was the first time anyone had ever flirted with him. Bashir kicked himself mentally. He knew how to play this game and it was about time Garak got a dose of his own medicine.

Considering that 30C was the Cardassian standard ambient room temperature and that two of their major arteries ran close to skin, right under their neck ridges, it was an easy conclusion to make that Cardassians were susceptible to heat and oh, was he going to use that to his advantage.  

Bashir gave Garak a conspiratorial smile and leaned closer, his palm flat on the small round table for support. Close enough, in fact, to ensure Garak could feel the heat of Bashir's breath on his skin.

"Now that would be telling, but I am sure you will enjoy _this_ –" Bashir dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. "Very much." He lightly tapped the datarod Garak in Garak's hand and held his gaze for a moment, curving his lips into a seductive smile. "How about we discuss the contents..." He got up, trailing his finger up the Cardassian's arm to linger for a moment, just long enough for Garak to feel the warmth of Bashir's hand on his neck-ridge and inclined his head. "When I don't have to be on duty in five minutes."

Enjoying the dazed look Garak gave him upon his departure much more than he should Bashir made his way to the infirmary with a spring in his step. And when he passed Odo sitting on his usual stool at Quark's, he gave the Chief of Security a friendly nod.

He'd definitely won this match.

-::-

Bashir finished the book more out of obligation than actual interest -- and because returning Garak's PADD was just the excuse he needed to visit the spy's shop. At least the book about Li Nalas had been entertaining in a shuttle accident kind of way.

The doors to Garak's shop opened smoothly and Bashir stepped inside. It wasn't nearly as warm in there as he remembered; in fact the room was the same ambient temperature as the rest of the station. The lighting though, was still set to a dim 74%.

Garak was standing in front of his replicator, watching his order materialize. He turned with a pleasant customer service expression on his face, which changed to a genuine smile as he recognized who the customer was.

"Doctor, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Garak took a steaming mug out of the replicator and wrapped his fingers around it with a sigh. "Don't tell me you changed your mind about the Andorian silk."

"Actually," Bashir made a beeline for Garak's work table, holding the PADD in front of him like a shield. "I've come to return the history book you _lent_ me."

He placed the book on the table, peering surreptitiously down onto the paperwork strewn about. Bingo.

Next to a user manual for a sizing scanner were several papers in Cardassi laying in a messy stack. The topmost contained, in Garak's neat handwriting, what seemed to be the last page of his personal psych evaluation of Major Kira. Bashir gloated inwardly at his success. So the Central Command was interested in the station personnel. Not surprising, really, but sadly, as far as he could tell, the information had not obtained illegally.

Bashir suppressed a snicker as he scanned the page. Garak's assessment of her temper, while rather unflattering, was amusingly accurate. Having been on the receiving end of it, he utterly agreed with the Cardassian on her short fuse. The one thing that especially caught his eye was the single underlined name at the end of the passage: Kira Meru? Was that her mother? Sister? Most curious. He'd have to remember to look that up.

"Oh, how wonderful." Garak seemed reluctant to let go of his mug, taking a second to decide where to put it before walking over to Bashir. "What do you think of it?"

Bashir's heart skipped a beat. The next entry after Kira's was his.

 _Chief Medical Officer:Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir, Lieutenant Junior Grade. Human male, 25. Likes Tarkaelian tea, extra sweet._  

That was it? Bashir suppressed an annoyed huff. I'm not twenty-five! Insulted by the wrong age and honestly the  brevity of that statement, Bashir had to clench his jaw to keep his face impassive.

"To be perfectly honest, Garak." Bashir took a final glance at the handwritten notes, before turning to face the tailor with a forced smile. "It was very – eh – factual."

Then he saw it, the jackpot. Out of the corner of his eyes, half hidden under the other papers was a hastily scrawled note: _Upper pylon 3, stardate 46658.2_

A secret meeting? Tonight at two am? Bashir's heart skipped a beat in excitement. That had to be important!

"Really? I thought you might enjoy it after that _poetic_ biography." Garak picked up the PADD. His hand snuck to the small of Julian's back, politely steering him away from the work table and toward the door. "Do excuse the mess. I've been terribly busy."

"Is that so?" Busy with what exactly, Bashir wondered as he looked around the shop, comparing the current stock with his recollection. Even though Garak had rearranged the pieces, only one shirt seemed to have been sold.

"Oh my, yes my dear Doctor. As with many things…" Garak turned halfway, his hands sliding up Bashir's chest, coming to rest on his shoulders. "One can make such terrible mistakes –"

I should stop him, Bashir thought, wherever this is heading, but –

Garak's voice was soft, his mouth so close to Bashir's ear that the tailor's breath left goose bumps on Bashir's skin. "Misinterpreting fashion." 

Bashir nodded, not sure what he was agreeing to, his heart suddenly in his throat. Garak ran his hands over Bashir's uniform collar, smoothing the popped edges down.

"There, much better!" He declared in a self-satisfied voice before he gave Bashir's shoulder a final friendly pat and stepped away with a perfectly fake innocent smile on his face.

"You look a bit out of sorts, Doctor," Garak stepped within door sensor range, voice dripping concern, "If I may ask? Have you eaten lunch yet?"

"No." Bashir shook his head, as much an affirmation as a way to clear his head.

"You really should take better care of your health," Garak teased him, hand still lingering at the small of Bashir's back, the hovering pressure tantalizing. "Doctor, would you care to join me at the replimat?"

Bashir took a step forward, free of Garak's touch as the Cardassian went on, "Sharing a meal with a friendly face is so much more enjoyable, don't you agree?"

"By all means, lead the way." Bashir snorted, too giddy about his discovery to decide if that remark was a dig against Bashir or self-deprecation. He stepped onto the promenade, waiting for Garak to lock the shop's door behind them.

-::-

It was nearly their turn at the replimat when Garak put a hand on Bashir's shoulder. Bashir half turned to him, meeting the Cardassian's sly smile with a tilt of his head.

"Doctor, since you didn't seem to enjoy the book I picked out for you, will you do me the favor of letting me make it up to you?" Garak looked at him with big, hopeful eyes and Bashir wondered how someone reptilian could look so much like a puppy.

"What exactly do have in mind?" Bashir asked, his voice teasing. "More clandestine clothes fittings?"

"Nothing of the sort, dear Doctor." Garak stepped up to the replicator, his hand hovering over the species controls. "Nothing of the sort. I was merely going to suggest you let me choose our lunch."

Bashir considered for a moment, if this were one of his holo-novels the food would most definitely be drugged, and he'd wake up shackled in the villain's secret hide-out.  But even if Garak was a spy, this was the replimat and there really was no risk other then Garak choosing something unpalatable. The thought made him feel mildly disappointed.

"By all means." Bashir gestured toward the controls. "Surprise me." He loved trying new dishes and he'd never had anything Cardassian before. Bashir smiled at Garak, raising a challenging eyebrow. "In a good way."

"I will endeavor to." Garak gave him a polite little bow before turning back to the replicator to order.

Bashir had never heard of the dishes Garak ordered, but the food that materialized in lidded earthenware bowls smelled delicious. He followed the Cardassian across the replimat as Garak seemed to have chosen a table at the far end that allowed him to sit with his back against one of the bulkheads.

They'd all but sat down and Bashir was about to start eating when he heard the people on the table next to them get up, their chairs scraping on the floor.

"Can you smell that?" One of the Bajoran men asked loudly, while pointedly looking at Garak. He was middle-aged and barrel-chested, heavy-set in a way that suggested a thick layer of muscle under the pudge. "I thought we'd taken out the trash." 

Someone snickered.

"Smells like something has been left behind to rot," he went on in a loud, cheerfully threatening voice that made it clear that he was enjoying the audience.                                                         

Bashir could see Garak's fingers tighten around his spoon but his face remained impassive.

"I think I've lost my appetite!"  the younger one chimed in and Bashir tensed as Garak turned around. It would have been better to just ignore them.

"Oh my, sudden loss of appetite can't be healthy," Garak addressed the two men, concern in his voice, giving them a disarmingly brilliant smile. "There is nothing wrong with the food, I hope?"

"It's not the food that turned my stomach." the other, younger Bajoran hissed, glaring at Garak. His hands were gripping the back of the chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. "But this place could do with a good cleaning."

Bashir sighed inwardly. Was this really necessary? He put his spoon down with a clank. No matter that Garak was goading them on, this had been unasked for.

"The station really has seen cleaner days. But maybe there's a bug going around. You do look a bit flushed," Garak ploughed on cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the aggression in their postures. "What do you think, Doctor?"

"I think that my lunch is getting cold." Bashir tried to kick him under the table but found that Garak had moved his legs out of range. The chances of this not ending in a physical fight were dropping rapidly. He glared briefly at the Cardassian before turning toward the men, his voice calm, matter of fact. "But if you still feel unwell in an hour, come by the infirmary and I will have one of the nurses check you out."

"What a splendid idea." Garak beamed at him. "We really can't have the whole station catching another Bajoran stomach bug, can we?"

"What did that stinking Cardassian just say about the Occupation?"

Bashir sighed. Part of him had hoped they wouldn't catch onto that. 

"Let's settle this, shall we?"

The bigger of the two men straightened his back and started advancing on them when Odo's tart voice cut through the tension.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

The Chief of Security stepped out from behind the bulkhead, hands folded in front of his chest. Bashir closed his eyes in relief. He actually had to applaud the man's timing.

"No." The younger and apparently more level-headed of the two started pulling his friend away by his arm, but Bashir was certain he heard a muttered 'damn shifter' as they left.

"Oh, you're leaving so soon?" Garak raised his voice, beaming at their retreating backs and then turned toward the Chief of Security. "Would you care to join us for lunch, Constable? The Sem'hal is most excellent today."

"I don't eat." The Odo let out one of his annoyed little huffs and folded his arms in front of his chest, addressing Bashir, "I trust you and your _friend_ can keep out of trouble now?"

"Actually _my friend_ and I were about to enjoy our lunch." Bashir sniped back, annoyed at Odo's attitude. He picked up his spoon to make a point. "When they insulted Garak."

The Chief of Security looked from Garak to Bashir and back, as if contemplating what to do with them. Then he just nodded at Bashir.

"As you say, Doctor."

"Oh, and Constable?" Garak smiled brightly at the glowering Odo. "Have a good day!"

"You are unbelievable," Bashir muttered under his breath, torn between annoyance and amusement as he watched Odo stalk off.

Bashir lifted the lid of his bowl and was about to dip his spoon into what Garak had declared the best Sem'hal stew outside of Cardassian space, when Garak caught his hand before Bashir's spoon could touch the food.

"Doctor, be careful." Garak's hand guided his back down to the table, and at Bashir's questioning look Garak continued, "Cardassian food is eaten very hot, it would be a shame if you accidentally scalded –" Garak's stopped for a split second, wetting his lips, "your mouth."

"Uh, thanks," Bashir stuttered, pulling his hand away. He'd yet to figure out if Garak was actually flirting with him or if the touchy-feely was a trait all Cardassians shared. It would have to remain a mystery for now, it wasn't as if there were any others around for him to compare.

"You are most welcome." Garak blew carefully onto the stew on his spoon and started eating.

-::-

"That was delicious, Garak." Bashir pushed his plate away with a satisfied sigh. "You must allow me to pick something human for dessert."

"I would like nothing more, Doctor." Garak looked extraordinarily pleased at the praise, then his voice turned teasing. "But I do hope that your taste in food is better than your taste in literature."

"I shall do my best." Bashir rolled his eyes and got up. He started gathering their dishes onto the tray, meaning to drop them off at the recycler on his way to the replicator. "Would you care for some coffee? Tea? Raktajino?"

"Red leaf tea, if you would be so kind." Garak helped him stack the bowls. "Hot."

"Sure." Bashir took the tray, giving the Cardassian a small nod. "I'll be right back."

Waiting in line at the replicator he mentally ran through a list of suitable desserts. Remembering that Garak had mentioned that Cardassian food was served hot, he settled on a childhood favorite of his: apple crumble.

Feeling good about his choice he carried their desserts back to their table handing Garak his bowl.

The Cardassian raised it up to his nose, smelling it and Bashir could see the pink tip of his tongue dart out to taste the air.

"I take it that you approve?" Bashir licked his spoon clean and pushed his empty bowl away, watching the tailor savor his.

"Your taste in desserts is definitely much superior than your taste in books," Garak teased him around a spoonful of apple crumble, his enjoyment obvious.

"I am sorry, Garak, but I fail to see what is so interesting about pages upon pages of dry facts." Bashir reached for his raktajino, having chosen it partially because he was still annoyed at Garak's brief notes on him but also because he would need it if he was to be alert at two am.

"You aren't seriously saying that Glinn Nokesh's summary is boring?" Garak pushed his bowl to the side and scooted his chair next to Bashir's. Julian could feel their legs touching.

"That is exactly what I am saying," Bashir challenged with a smile, trying not to give into the urge to pull his leg away; that would be losing.

"I will have you know that it is one of the most controversial history texts published in recent years."

"Well, then, show me." Bashir scooted over the PADD so that they could botheasily read the text. Wondering what he'd missed.

What followed was a most fascinating history and culture lesson and Bashir loved every second of it. Garak did have a knack for teaching, Bashir thought, for asking the one question that would put Bashir's thoughts on the right track without ever doing something so crass as to outright stating the correct answer.

Halfway through the conversation, Bashir noticed that Garak's leg was still pressed against his. He'd somehow expected the Cardassian to push further, to maybe casually touch his knee or thigh, but Garak hadn't. There was only the gentle pressure of the tailor's leg against his. It was maddening.

"But you see here, my dear doctor" Garak gently cleared his throat, demanding Bashir's attention back to the PADD. He pointed to a name on the table. "Why is Gul Dar'Jal, who has seven Galor class warships under his command, as you can see there, not listed as one of the commanders in following battle?"

Julian blinked. Oh, that's how this was played. He scrolled back to a previous page.

"Because he's aligned with Gul Narem," Bashir tapped on the screen at the summary of a military summit. "If I remember correctly, their families forged an alliance when they were both children. Right?"

"Very good, Doctor!" Garak smiled approvingly. "I see you're getting into the spirit of things."

Bashir beamed. This was fun, almost like a mystery novel. He'd have to reread the book with subtext like this in mind. It definitely gave him a much clearer insight into the Cardassian mindset.

He couldn't wait to see what secrets he'd learn tonight.

-::-

"Computer, time?" Bashir was pacing in his quarters, willing the time to go faster.

_The current time is twenty-four hundred hours twelve minutes._

He sighed. He'd taken a short nap earlier, making sure that he would be alert and ready to spy on his spy and now he was wide awake and the waiting was killing him.

Bashir pulled open his closet, wondering if he should dress for the occasion. He reached for his tux, lovingly stroking the fabric with his thumb. It had been a while since he'd run the Bond holo-novel Felix had coded just for him. He decided to rectify that on his next day off. Bashir sighed and hung the tux back, no matter how good he looked in it, it would be silly. This stake-out required something more practical, something dark, a strategic black turtleneck perhaps?

In the end, Bashir decided that his normal uniform was the best way to be inconspicuous. If questioned he could always just claim that he couldn't sleep and was taking a walk. Walking the station at night, while discouraged by Odo, was not in fact forbidden.

At zero hours five minutes he could not stand the waiting any longer and decided that he might as well wait at Quark's. There even was a 68% chance that he'd run into Jadzia there, even if it was not her Tongo night, and even if not where better to get into the spirit of things if not a seedy bar?

-::-

Midnight was not even close to closing time at Quark's, the gambling was in full swing, the Dabo wheels clicking cheerfully as he entered the bar.

Bashir searched the tables and smiled to himself. He liked being right. Jadzia, Major Kira and Chief O'Brien were sitting on a table off to the left, far enough from the noise of the Dabo tables to make conversation possible. Bashir stopped at the bar to order a martini when he heard Jadzia call out to him.

"Julian!" Jadzia waved at him from across the room, beckoning him to join them. Chief O'Brien and Major Kira on the other hand didn't seem too happy to see him. Bashir didn't need enhanced senses to hear O'Brien's sigh.

Not letting the Chief's sour expression ruin his mood, Bashir smiled and waved back. He was certain that he'd win the man over one of these days. Maybe if he could get them both assigned to the same mission? Yes, that sounded like a good plan.

Bashir fished the olive out of his drink and popped it into his mouth as he walked over to their table, his eye lingering on the tantalizing trail of spots that ran down her slender neck. She really was amazing. 

"Jadzia. Major. Chief." Bashir nodded at them in greeting and put his drink down on the table.

"Doctor," Both Major Kira and Chief O'Brien acknowledged in unison, sharing a glance over their drinks.

"Is that a Ferengi Black Hole I spot?" Bashir pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat down next to Jadzia giving her a blinding smile.

"Yes, it is. You should try one sometime." She smiled back, taking a sip. "What has you up this late, Julian?" She teased, "A date?"

"Sadly no, unless …" He raised a questioning, hopeful eyebrow at her. One day she'd say yes. "You'd like it to be one?"

"You know what I admire about you, Julian?" Jadzia patted him on the shoulder, unfazed. "You never give up."

Major Kira snickered, unsuccessfully trying to hide it behind a cough. 

Bashir reached for the sandpeas, for once content not to push this further. He had other fish to fry tonight.

"Miles, what were you saying about the Cardassian medical scanners?" Jadzia gently nudged, not too subtly trying to rekindle their conversation.

"Oh, new adventures in Cardassian engineering?" Bashir pushed the sandpeas back over to O'Brien. "I've only dabbled in the theory of uridium alloy sensors. It sounded quite fascinating."

"If you say so, sir." Chief O'Brien gave Bashir an annoyed look before downing the rest of his beer. "Well, it _has been_ a pleasant night," He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "but I promised Keiko not to stay out too late." He stood up, knocking on the table as a good bye. "Good night, Major. Lieutenants."

"Good night, Chief," Bashir muttered, fully aware of the barb, but wondering what he'd done to offend the man this time. He preferred to annoy O'Brien on purpose; unintentionally doing so was not nearly half as much fun.

"Have a nice evening." Jadzia raised her glass a goodbye to Chief O'Brien.

"And say hallo to Keiko and Molly from me!" Major Kira chimed in.

Bashir looked from Major Kira to Chief O'Brien and back. When had those two become friends?

"Oh, I didn't know the Gallamites had arrived already. If you'll excuse me for a moment?" Jadzia got up, smoothing down her uniform. She gestured to where an alien with a transparent skull had just taken a seat at the bar. "I'm just going to say hi to Captain Boday. He's with the Science Delegation. I'll be right back."

Bashir glanced over to Major Kira who seemed to be content to just watch Jadzia chat up the Gallamite Captain.

"That's a Gallamite?" She pointed her drink in the general direction of bar. "He's got a transparent skull! You can see his –"

Desperate for a topic that didn't include the guy Jadzia was chatting up. Bashir cut her off. "Oh, Major? Can I ask you a question?" He leaned on his elbow, looking at her expectantly. "As an expert."

"What about, Doctor?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, you were in the Resistance, right?" Bashir ploughed on. He had so many questions about Li Nalas and the resistance she might be able to answer. And then there also was Kira Meru.

She nodded. "What do you want to know?"

"Have you ever met Li Nalas? I recently read this book –" he started out cheerfully but the second the words came out of his mouth, her expression, not exactly friendly to begin with, turned murderous. 

"Oh, I've heard, Doctor," her voice was dripping sweet poison. "In fact, I'm sure the whole replimat has heard." 

"Uhm –" Bashir scooted his chair back a bit, swallowing hard, his eyes wide. What had he possibly said that –

"What you and that _Cardassian_ think." She leaned forward, her palm flat on table, her face inches from his, making him cringe under her stare. "Would you like to know what I think, Doctor–"

Oh. Not good.

_"Ops to Major Kira."_

"What?" Major Kira hit her combadge with more force than necessary and Bashir let out the breath he'd been holding.

_"Major, there's an incoming transmission from Bajor for you."_

"I'll take it in my office," she snapped, scooting her chair back with a screech. She stalked off without a good bye.

Not that Bashir minded. He swirled his drink in his glass, watching Jadzia chat animatedly with the Gallamite and sighed. With the way she was touching his arm there was an 87% chance that they'd –

Bashir shuddered and downed his drink. He was not going to pathetically sit here all alone, and he was definitely not going to watch that.

-::-

Wandering the station at night was peaceful and just what he needed after Quark's. The anticipation of spying on the spy, of listening in on intergalactic secrets, quickly lightened his mood and soon he was whistling the theme of his favorite holo-novel under his breath, thoroughly enjoying the serenity of having the corridors mostly to himself.

Bashir clasped his hands behind his back, pretending to just be out on a leisurely stroll. He stopped for a moment at a porthole, watching the wormhole flare to life in brilliant shades of pink, azure and violet, thinking that the universe really was tacky in a stunning way.

He arrived at the pylon at oh-one hundred hours thirty minutes, with enough time to spare to find a good vantage point from where to spy on the Cardassian and whoever it was he was meeting there.

The area was completely deserted, as was to be expected at this time of the night, with not even a repair or maintenance crew  in the vicinity. His plain and simple friend had chosen the location for his little meeting well. There was little chance that anyone would stumble upon them unless – Bashir grinned, feeling rather smug. Unless they knew.

Bashir carefully picked a spot that not only conveniently cast him into shadows, but also enabled him to see anyone approaching the pylon. Adding to that, his better than average hearing made him certain that he had the upper hand and should soon find out what this clandestine meeting was all about.

He leaned his shoulder against the support beam whose shadow he was hiding in. Feeling a bit antsy in anticipation but having enough self-control to not fidget ,he surveyed his surroundings.

The lights were dimmed for night, back to nearly Cardassian standard. Bashir felt that it gave him a better idea on what Deep Space Nine's architecture was supposed to look like. Under the brighter, Federation standard lighting Cardassian arches appeared squat, forbidden and crassly militaristic but with the shifting shadows and the softer light came a slightly different atmosphere.

Once the lights were dimmed, Bashir realized that their placement was meant to add height to the room, not just illuminate it. Oh, it was still militaristic and since the station had been an ore processing facility, high architecture was not to be expected, but the shadows added something that made the pillars more akin to Roman columns, more majestic. It made Bashir consider asking Quark, or better Garak, if they had any tourism holo-programs featuring Cardassia Prime.

Oh-two hundred hours passed and Bashir found himself straining his hearing, but aside from the omnipresent hum of the station's machinery there was nothing to be heard. No footsteps, no hushed voices. Nothing.

Another fifteen minutes passed and Bashir was starting to get impatient. It wasn't very Cardassian to not be on time. Maybe the meeting had been canceled, or the location moved. Bashir stifled a yawn, wondering if he should call it a night when he suddenly sensed something moving behind him.

"Very good, Doctor." He felt the Cardassian's presence a split second before he heard the treacle-sweet words whispered in his ear. "Well done."

Bashir spun around, barely suppressing a very undignified squeak. He glared at Garak's smug face, body quivering with pent up emotions.

"You!" He advanced on the man, anger flaring. There was no secret meeting, no clandestine exchange of state secrets. This had been a game, a set up. Garak had probably been laughing every step of the way. "This was all a game, wasn't it Garak?"

"My dear Doctor." Garak smiled one of his condescending little smiles that right now was like nails on a chalkboard to Bashir. "You seem upset."

Bashir'd had enough. The flirting and teasing, the deliberate touches that never went anywhere, always stopped a split second before it got interesting, and now this. What was even the point of it other then humiliating him.

"Did you have fun?" Bashir hissed, making a grab for the Cardassian.

They were close, too close and Bashir could not really say who made the first move, it could have been him, or maybe not, but he was definitely the one who pulled Garak closer, fisted his hands into the tailor's tunic and kissed him right on that infuriating, smirking, teasing mouth.

The initial kiss had been short, brutal, nothing more than lips pressing against lips, but it had left them both panting and breathless. Garak had pulled away a little, looking up at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Bashir licked his lips and then Garak's hands were on Bashir's shoulders and before Garak could say something, anything, the wrong thing, Bashir leaned in again kissing him for real.

Garak's lips opened against his and Bashir felt a shiver of excitement run through him at the unmistakable alien feel of smooth, soft scales against his lips, of Garak pressed against him, of the slick, hot feel of his tongue and lips tasting like danger and his thigh sliding between Bashir's legs.

Part of him was screaming _finally_. They had been dancing around this, had been headed down this path for a while now, and now that it was finally happening Bashir didn't want it to stop. He ran his hands over Garak's back and up to the scale-covered ridges on his shoulders, making Garak moan and tighten his grip on Bashir.

Garak pulled away, and Bashir was about to protest when he too heard it, his enhanced hearing picking up two sets of the footsteps closing in on them. Bashir stilled, his eyes wide when Garak's hand closed around Bashir's wrist pulling him deeper into the shadows.

Bashir pressed himself flat against the support beam, breathing shallowly. Two oblivious Bajoran security guards walked past, Bashir counted ten, twenty, fifty meters before he turned around with a sigh of relief, and – and found himself alone. Garak had disappeared as silently as he'd arrived. 

He should be annoyed that Garak had played him so thoroughly, had set all of this up to – to what exactly? Bashir wet his lips and leaned back against the support beam. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking that right now the one thing he was annoyed about was that Garak had left before they could properly _finish_. He rather liked the new, exciting direction their game was taking. Bashir grinned. It leveled the playing field in his favor. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Bashir signed the order form for his new dress uniform, sending it on to the requisition office at Starfleet Central with the press of a button. He should get his secure replicator code within the next couple of days. He hadn't thought that requesting a new dress uniform would be such a hassle, and it wasn't exactly that he didn't know where his old one was. But telling his commanding officer that the last time he'd seen his uniform trousers was when they'd been draped over the chandelier in the foyer of the conference center on Risa – Bashir grinned at the memory of that night – was not a scenario that would play out well. He wasn't on Sisko's good side as it was.

Not that Sisko had reasons to be in a good mood. To say that their first official first contact hadn't gone too well was putting it kindly. Not only had the Wadi not been interested in relations with the Federation, they'd also abducted the senior staff for their own amusement, dumping them unknowingly in a stupid little holo-game and, to add insult to injury, Bashir'd been kicked out before it got interesting. Collapsing holo-caves were much more up his alley of fun than playing Gamma-Quadrant hopscotch.

_"Sisko to Doctor Bashir"._

"Bashir, here. What can I do for you, sir?"

_"Doctor, could you please come to my office at ten-hundred hours thirty minutes?"_

"Yes, of course, Commander."

_"Thank you, Doctor. Sisko out."_

Bashir briefly wondered if this had to do with the Ferengi Grand Nagus who was visiting the station. The man was awfully old and probably in ill health.

-::-

The door to Sisko's office whisked shut behind him and two security officers moved in front of it, blocking the door in a not yet threatening way. Bashir felt the blood drain from his face. They knew.

How? The question sprang to mind. He'd been so careful. He'd run this scenario many sleepless nights when he'd first joined Starfleet, but even then , he'd only been found out in his first couple of months on the station in the worst outcome of his calculations. Hands sweaty and mind racing he straightened his back, standing to attention. He would face this with dignity, he didn't regret anything; he just wished it could have lasted longer.

"You asked to see me, Commander?" Bashir choked out the words through dry lips, waiting for Sisko to make the accusation he frequently heard in his nightmares.

"Doctor," Sisko looked at him sternly from behind his desk, hand folded in front of him. "Security Chief Odo has made a severe accusation. You've been seen spending your free time with the presumed Cardassian spy Garak."

Wait, that's what that was about. Bashir took a breath, making sure to keep his face impassive, but dizzy with relief. That was it? "Yes, sir. We –"

"I wasn't finished, Doctor." Sisko glared at him over steepled hands. "And while I care to think that I can implicitly trust my commanding officers, Constable Odo saw you two exchanging files. Would you care to elaborate?"

"Uhm – yes, yes …" Exchanging files? The one time he could remember exchanging anything with the Cardassian, well – he willed down a blush – any files anyway, was when he'd given Garak that book. "I gave Garak a book, sir. We've been discussing literature."

"I saw you hand him a datarod, Doctor." Odo moved to stand beside Sisko's desk, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "Are you telling me that you used a datarod to store one single book? I find that hard to believe."

"Literature?" Commander Sisko inquired, his tone of voice falling somewhere in between disbelieve and exasperation.

"Yes, Literature." Bashir was getting annoyed now. "Sir." Was Odo seriously accusing him of passing on Federation secrets to the Cardassians? That was so ludicrous it didn't even deserve a response. Choosing to ignore the Chief of Security, Bashir held his chin up high as he addressed his commanding office, "Vulcan poetry, sir. We are about to discuss T'Lali's latest volume of poetry. 'Kar-i-far Kroyah', which roughly translates into –"

"Is that all you have been discussing?" Odo cut him off and leaned closer, inspecting Bashir as if he was an interesting but slightly revolting insect. "Cardassians never do anything without an ulterior motive. He probably pegged you as an easy mark."

"And maybe he just wanted a friendly conversation over lunch," Bashir snapped back, grinding his teeth. He knew that a lot of people considered him naïve, and he did cultivate that image to a certain degree, but this was just insulting. He glared at the Chief of Security. "I wasn’t aware that the merits of apple crumble are now considered a state secret."

"That will be enough!" Commander Sisko's authoritative voice cut through the argument and demanded silence. "I understand your feelings, Doctor and I agree it's a serious accusation to make, but since you don't deny passing on files to Garak, I have no choice but to look into the matter."

"Yes, sir." Bashir straightened his back, trying not to let his hurt pride show. His mind frantically tried to predict the outcome but drew a blank. There was an 83% he'd been found innocent, no 14%, no 58%. Bashir briefly closed his eyes, trying to focus on anything but the probable outcomes. It was giving him a headache. Too many unknown variables, not enough data. He knew practically nothing about Odo or his motives, and the man didn't give away any facial clues either. Bashir felt panic settle hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

"Now, let's get to the bottom of this." Sisko nodded toward the Chief of Security. "What do you suggest?"

"Check his access history, Commander." Odo turned to face Sisko, arms still folded in front of his chest. "If he has transferred any sensitive files, it should show up. I would have done so already, but since Doctor Bashir is command –" Odo stated, his resentment at being denied access to those files clear. He fixed Bashir with a stare that made it clear that he had already made up his mind. "But by now, of course, he has had sufficient time covered his tracks."

"I have no tracks to cover!" Bashir huffed. This was ridiculous and insulting. Never in his wildest nightmares had he imagined that he'd be accused of treason to the Federation. "Commander, I protest! This is preposterous!"

"I agree, Doctor and I'm sure we can clear this up in no time," Sisko went on, sounding not entirely unsympathetic. "Computer, list all level five and above clearance access for Doctor Julian Bashir, starting stardate 46379.1; disregard medical file access. Authorization: Sisko Alpha-0-Delta-9."

The computer remained silent for a moment, and Bashir consciously kept himself from holding his breath. He was innocent, there was no need to be worried.

He could see the guards' reflection in the darkness of the window behind Sisko's desk. They were standing to rigid attention, and Bashir sympathized. He didn't want to be here either.

The silence that reigned was oppressive; full of anticipation and dread. No one said a word and Bashir studied Sisko's expression. You're not sure, Bashir thought and the realization was like a kick in the stomach.

Bashir dug his fingernails into his palm to keep his emotions from showing. This was quickly turning into a nightmare and had he not felt the pain in his palm he'd have been sure that he would wake up any second, drenched in sweat, in his bed.

Fouty-three seconds passed.

When the computer's matter of fact voice cut through the silence Bashir couldn't help but hold his breath, expecting the worst, even though he knew he'd done nothing of the sort.

_Doctor Bashir has not accessed any files within the search parameters._

Odo harrumphed, clearly implying that he didn't believe this and Bashir was about to ask him what exactly his problem was when Sisko interrupted him.

"That is enough Mr Odo." Sisko gave Bashir an apologetic smile but Bashir could see the small vein on Sisko's temple starting to throb. "I sincerely apologize, Doctor. Please be assured of my fullest confidence in your loyalty to Starfleet and the Federation. You are, of course, free to spend your lunch discussing whatever literature you wish."

Sisko paused for a moment, his eyes fixing on the Chief of Security for a moment before he turned his attention back to Bashir.

"Now if you'll excuse us, Doctor, I'd like to have a word with our Chief of Security about proper Federation procedure!"

"Yes, sir," Bashir couldn't help keeping smugness out of his voice. He turned and walked past the two guards and out of Sisko's office. When he was one step down the stairs he didn't even have to strain his hearing to hear Odo question Commander Sisko's decision.

"You can't seriously trust that Cardassian, can you?"

Bashir didn't turn around, but slowed enough to not miss the Commander's response. He deserved at least that much.

"No, Mr Odo, I don't trust him either, but I do trust Doctor Bashir." Sisko's tone was measured, jovial in the way he sounded when he was barely holding in his anger. Sisko's belated declaration of trust made up for some of the humiliation.

"And this is not how we do things in the Federation." The commander's voice was rising with each clearly enunciated word. "We do not accuse people of crimes without any evidence. I thought I had made that clear the last time!"

The door whisked shut, cutting off the rest of the conversation. Bashir looked around the command deck, but everyone busily avoided his eyes.

-::-

Bashir strode down the corridor with wide agitated steps. The nerve to accuse him of betraying Federation secrets to the Cardassians just because he'd given Garak a book! What's next? Betraying the Federation to the Ferengis because he booked a holosuite from Quark? So much for 'innocent until proven guilty'! Bashir huffed. They'd done nothing wrong and he'd be damned if he stopped spending time with the one person who actually seemed to enjoy his company.

If there ever was a time to try one of Jadzia's infamous Ferengi Black Holes, Bashir decided it was now! Yet when he passed by Quark's he found it closed for a private meeting.

He sighed and – and why not, he thought, it was nearly lunchtime anyway and he was feeling more than a bit petulant at the moment – Bashir turned on his heels and walked directly to Garak's shop. And after all that had happened today, he felt that Garak deserved to hear the whole ridiculous story from him, and not through the station's grapevine.

When Bashir entered Garak's Clothier's, Garak himself was sitting behind his work station, reading a PADD, a steaming mug at his elbow.

It was a bit sad, Bashir noted, looking around the showroom, how once again the merchandise had been shifted around, but was giving only the illusion of sales.

"Hello Garak." Bashir grinned sheepishly at him from the door.

Garak looked up from his reading, he looked tired but sounded genuinely happy to see him, even if his greeting sounded somewhat lackluster. "Doctor, what a pleasant surprise! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Uhm." He had no idea how to start. How exactly did one start this kind of conversation? Good morning Garak! How are you, oh, and remember that book I gave you? I just got accused of passing on Federation Secrets to Cardassia, so expect a visit from security.

Hedging, Bashir perused the shirts instead, pulling out a goldenrod-yellow one with a pretty purple design on the front. He held it in front of his chest, checking out his reflection in one of the mirrors.

"Would you care for lunch?"

"I would be delighted. But, my dear Doctor –" Garak got out from behind his workstation. He wrapped what appeared to be a thick velvet dressing gown in forest-green and bright red tighter around himself, shivering. Bashir snorted at the color combination. How clashingly patriotic.

"Did you catch a cold?" Bashir eyed the Cardassian, seeing neither the swollen eyelids nor the nasal discharge that were common symptoms in other reptilian-humanoids. Not that that was a definitive diagnosis; they really had little data on Cardassian physiology. "We can stop by the infirmary, if you're not feeling well."

"Your concern does you credit, Doctor, but I assure you, I am perfectly fine. It just gets a little chilly in here."

Garak gently took the shirt from Bashir, slightly shaking his head as he did so.

"If I may?" He hung the shirt back onto the rack, his fingers dancing over the hangers before pulling out a stark white one. He handed it to Bashir with an encouraging little nod. "This one, my dear, is much more flattering."

Bashir ran his hand over the fabric, it felt nice for sure, but plain white? How boring!

"Humor me?" Garak smiled disarmingly at him and Bashir realized that his distaste must have been obvious on his face.

Garak held the curtain to the changing room open for him and Bashir thought: why not? Garak could definitely use the sale. He grabbed the yellow shirt as well just to hear Garak's exasperated sigh.

Bashir unzipped his uniform to his waist and shrugged out of the top-half, his sleeves coming to dangle down his legs, nearly touching the floor. He pulled the turtleneck over his head next and tossed it onto the stool by the mirror. Holding the two shirts in his hands, one left, one right, he decided to try on the one he'd picked first.

He stretched out his arms, trying to get the feel of the garment. The shoulders fit well enough, but sadly, it was a bit tight around his chest and no matter how he pulled at it, about twenty centimeters too short, ending just above his bellybutton. When he stepped outside the changing room to show Garak, more for the reaction he was sure to get than the actual need for approval, the Cardassian had returned to his workstation and Bashir could hear the unmistakable snap of a drawer being pushed shut before Garak turned to face Bashir.

"What do you think?"

Bashir struck a pose.

"That's a lovely color, Doctor." Garak shrugged out of his robe, folding it neatly before placing it over the back of his chair. "On a Ferengi. It is, after all, the latest fashion on Ferenginar, or so I have been given to believe."

"Great." Bashir turned this way and that, admiring himself in the mirror. He looked utterly ridiculous. "I'll take it," he teased.

"I do hope you're joking, my dear," Garak's voice rang with good humor. He sounded much less tired than a few moments ago. "I am not sure I can sell that shirt to you in good faith. It would not do my reputation any favors should you choose to spread the tale of where you purchased this particular garment."

Bashir snorted and went back into the changing room, reaching for the shirt Garak had picked out. Contemplating what it was Garak had seen necessary to hide from him: an actual secret this time or another piece in an elaborate set up? Bashir pulled the shirt over his head. His left arm in, he pulled the shirt down over his face and wriggled the other arm up into the sleeve and – had he missed a fastening? He wriggled some more, managing to get the shirt past his shoulders. Barely.

The shirt had appeared drapey and wide when he'd held it up against his chest in the mirror, but now it seemed at least a size too small. He tried pulling his arm back out, but to no avail.

"Uhm, Garak could you come in here, please?" Bashir toed the curtain open with his foot. Arms up high, shirt taught over his face, he glared at the tailor through the thin fabric. "I seem to be stuck."

"Oh my." Garak looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on the exposed skin. He took a sip from his mug, making no move to help. "How ever did that happen?"

"Are you sure this is meant for humans?" Bashir wriggled a bit more, trying to free himself, completely aware of the effect his bare chest was having on the Cardassian. "A little help here, Garak."

"But of course, Doctor." Garak stepped closer and Bashir shivered as Garak's cool hands settled on his waist. "Hold still, please."

"Oh, you're enjoying this, aren't you, Garak?" Bashir drew in a breath as Garak's hands slid up Bashir's sides and cool fingers wormed under the fabric of the shirt. They stood like that for a moment, Garak's face inches from his, and Bashir could feel his own hot breath dampening the fabric of the shirt. Cool fingers warmed rapidly against Bashir's skin, caressing his ribs. They were both breathing shallowly and Bashir watched the tip of Garak's startlingly pink tongue dart out between his finely-scaled grey lips, lips Bashir remembered kissing, wouldn't mind kissing again. Bashir leaned forward and – damn that shirt!

Bashir cleared his suddenly dry throat.

"The shirt?"

"Oh, my dear Doctor, what was I thinking?" With a gentle tug Garak pulled the shirt over Bashir's head, freeing him. He took a step back and held the shirt up, looking from it to Bashir's bare chest. "That is entirely the wrong size."

Bashir thought that he had a very good idea just exactly what his plain and simple friend had been thinking when Garak's thumbs had gently stroked his stomach, so why was he stopping now?

"But Doctor, it really is a bit chilly in here," Garak beamed at him, draping the shirt carelessly over the display rack. "As much as I delight in seeing you in my creations, I'd think you'd better get dressed. Besides, I am suddenly famished!"

Yeah, Bashir griped inwardly, me too, but not for food. Damn tease.

-::-

They were halfway through their meal and in the middle of a lively discussion about the merits of a-tonal dactylic rhymes in Vulcan poetry when the Chief of Security stopped by their table.

"Constable!" Garak addressed the man with a smile that bared too many teeth. "What a pleasure!"

"Mr Odo."

Bashir suppressed a cringe, wondering if Odo was going to make a scene or worse, give an awkward apology.

"Gentlemen." But Odo stood silently at their table for a moment, arms crossed in front of his chest, before giving each of them a brief nod. "Enjoy your meal."

Bashir held the Constable's gaze for a moment, figuring that this was all the apology he'd get.

"Now that was interesting." Garak commented with a nonchalance that just had to be fake as soon as Odo was out of earshot. He tilted his head at Bashir. "You wouldn't happen to know what that was about?"

"Yeah, about that…" Bashir sighed. He'd have to tell Garak about what had happened sooner or later. "Remember when I gave you that datarod."

"The one with the delightful volume of poetry we've just been discussing?" Garak reached for his red leaf tea.

"Er, yes." Bashir took a deep breath before he continued, "You know, Odo saw me handing you that datarod and came to the conclusion that I am passing on Federation secrets."

Garak looked at him for a moment and then started to laugh.

"Stop laughing! I'm serious," Bashir hissed, glaring at Garak. "And people are staring!"

"Oh I know you are, dear Doctor." Garak managed to calm himself, letting out only the occasional giggle. "And I apologize, but you have to admit it's –"

"It's not funny!" Bashir interrupted, fighting to keep his voice down despite his rising indignation. "He accused me of treason! He reported me to Commander Sisko! Can you believe that?"

"An upstanding Federation citizen like yourself?" Garak patted him on the hand. "But I take it since you're sitting here with me, that they found nothing incriminating?"

"Of course, they didn't." Bashir suppressed a cringe, trying not to think about the deeply buried, incriminating things they would find if they only knew where to look. "Why would I, why would anyone, betray the Federation?"

"Why indeed, Doctor?" Garak gave him a contemplative look. "I have to say such loyalty to the State is very commendable."

Something in the way Garak had said that didn't sit well with Bashir, even though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It had been something in the inflection of the word 'loyalty'.

"It's not blind loyalty, if that's what you're trying to imply, my Cardassian friend." Bashir twirled some noodles around his fork. "Humanity has come a long way since the 20th century."

Bashir felt a pang of guilt at saying that, feeling momentarily that he didn't quite have the right to do so, that his sole existence was a stain on that achievement, but – this was about the principle of the thing, not set-backs like himself. If Garak had noticed him pausing, he didn't show it and so Bashir went on, "We fought hard to eliminate war, poverty, greed and the selfish need to put oneself above others. It's not blind loyalty. What we have achieved is unparalleled in history."

"And you truly believe what you just told me, don't you doctor?" Garak looked at him over the rim of his mug, his voice infuriatingly mild.

"Yes, and I know what you're thinking my Cardassian friend." Bashir stabbed indignantly at his lunch. "It's not just propaganda either, it is actually true."

"But my dear Doctor," Garak gave him an indulgent smile. "That is the best propaganda of all."

Bashir was about protest when a commotion went through the replimat and his eyes were drawn to its source.

"Is that Quark?" Bashir's hand stalled halfway between his plate and his mouth as Quark walked by, long purple robes and several groveling Ferengi trailing behind him.

"Nagus Quark now, it appears." Garak took another sip of his tea, cradling the mug between his hands. "How fortunate for him."

"That's one way of putting it." Bashir snorted, glad for the change of topic. His enhanced hearing picked up Gral's thinly veiled threat to Quark. If Quark was stupid enough, and when it came to profit the otherwise clever Ferengi seemed to leave his brain in his quarters, safely locked in a solid latinum box, he would actually accept Gral's offer. Bashir shook his head sadly. Quark would end up in the infirmary with 94% certainty.

"He has a way of being in the epicenter of trouble."

Bashir continued eating.

In the last couple of weeks Quark had either caused or had been a major player in several near disasters: first the aphasia plague, then Quark'd nearly doomed the station trying to auction off that Gamma Quadrant energy being and last but not least the incident with the Wadi. Quark being Nagus raised the chances that the station would blow up to an unsettling 18%.

"You won't find me disagreeing with you there, Doctor." Garak held his gaze for a moment, eyes sparkling with mischief. He stood up and tapped the rim of his mug with a spoon. Waiting until he had everyone's attention, he raised his glass. "To Nagus Quark's health!"

There was some muttering and whispering among the other diners in the replimat, but to Bashir's relief most of it was curious rather than hostile. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Morn and several others following suit and Bashir thought oh, to hell with it and joined in the chorus.

"Long live Nagus Quark!"


	4. Chapter 4

Bashir swirled the remaining 24 ml of his Ferengi Black Hole in his glass, feeling the telltale warmth of potent liquor flush his face and fog his mind, scattering his thoughts. He watched the Dabo girl spin the wheel, idly calculating the trajectory of the ball.

Dabo, Bashir whispered a second before the crowd cheered.

"Julian?" Jadzia gently touched him on the arm and he leaned into the touch. "You seem miles away. Is something wrong?"

There were thirty-nine customers at Quark's. Seventeen Bajorans, nine Humans, three Gallamites –

"Sorry." Bashir tried to turn his attention back to her, which really shouldn't have been as hard as it turned out to be; this was only his second drink and Jadzia was endlessly fascinating. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but he was having a harder and harder time trying to focus. "It's just –"

Three Vulcans, two Klarians, one Grootian –

"I just –" Bashir closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Concentrate, Julian, you can't be that drunk. When he opened his eyes again, Rom was bussing the table 38° degrees to his right and Bashir remembered what he'd wanted to ask Jadzia. He gestured toward where Quark was tending bar 18.95 meters away and tried again. "You're friends with him, right?"

"Who, Quark?" And at his nod she continued, tilting her head at him. "Yes, why?"

"I'm having a hard time understanding them – him." Bashir leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles. He gestured toward Quark with his drink. This had been bothering him for a while now. "I mean, Rom tried to kill him and now –"

Behind the bar, Quark was pouring drink after drink, handing the orders over to his brother like he'd done every single day since Bashir had gotten to the station. To think that he'd been the Ferengi Head of State just a few days ago!

Bashir rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyes and yawned. Quark was tending bar as if nothing had changed, as if that had never happened. As if Rom had never tried to space him. It was most surreal. Not only had Quark waived all charges – Bashir'd been surprised that that was even possible under Ferengi law – he'd also promoted his brother to assistant manager.

"And now Quark is proud of him." She gave him a tiny smile, tilting her head a little. She almost sounded as if she approved. "I know it's hard to understand," Jadzia picked up her own Black Hole, draining the tumbler before she continued. "But in Quark's eyes, Rom behaved honorably."

"And that's exactly what I have a hard time understanding. How is trying to kill your brother honorable?" Bashir blurted out, it went against everything he had ever been taught, everything he believed in. "I nearly had to sign the man's death certificate, for crying out loud. Twice!"

"Not our sense of honor, Julian." She gave him that sad little disappointed look that made him feel like he didn't quite measure up, made him want to be a better person. "Ferengi honor is all about profit."

"Anything in the name of profit?" Bashir contemplated the idea; it was almost Klingon, in a twisted, lying, cheating and murdering kind of way. Well, they'd agree on the murdering at least.

"Exactly." Jadzia looked at him with those blue eyes of hers and Bashir was suddenly reminded of why he admired her so much. Her unshakeable acceptance of other species' values was something he wished he could emulate. Was something a small, selfish part of him banked on should she ever find out about his enhancements.

"Don't judge them too harshly, Julian. Once you look past the profit, they're actually a lot of fun."

Jadzia took a long look at her empty tumbler.

"I'm trying not to," he grumbled into his drink. "It's just … embracing greed like that, it's…"

"Wrong?" she suggested and he suddenly couldn't meet her eyes.

"Something like that …" he muttered.

"You could join us for Tongo some time." She poked him in the arm. "Maybe you'll be surprised. You might learn something."

"Yeah, maybe I will," Bashir hedged. He didn't really like that sort of game. It was no challenge, predictable, boring. It had taken him four exciting minutes to figure out the odds to Dabo and how to win it. He'd rapidly lost interest after that, hoping that the day he'd need those skills, the day when his secret was out and he'd have to leave Federation space in a hurry, was a long way off. Gambling would only ever be a means to an end if he needed money to run.

The ice-cubes in his glass had melted down to 12.5% of their original size. He swirled them around, speeding the process by 18%. They'd be gone in 2.7 minutes.

"Julian?"

Jadzia put the drink she'd gotten for him down on the table, giving him an amused look.

Bashir looked up. He hadn't even noticed she'd been gone. There were fifty-seven spots visible above her turtleneck.

"I think it's time you went to bed." She held out her hand. "Come, I'll help you up."

"Uhm."

She was right, it was time to go back to his quarters. He had to be on duty in 24339 seconds. 24338. 24337. 24336.

Bashir forced himself to stop counting and took her hand.

There were 462 steps from the table to –

-::-

Bashir felt much less drunk after he'd finished his second glass of water, but he replicated an additional 330 ml of ORT fluid nevertheless. Better safe than sorry.

A Klingon science vessel had picked up a passenger in the Gamma Quadrant and was due to arrive tomorrow. Hopefully, their first contact with the Rakhari would not be another disaster.

He removed his combadge and pips from his uniform and stuffed the day's clothes into the recycler before replicating fresh pajamas and padding over – naked and barefoot – to his bathroom to get ready for bed.

Adjusting the sonic shower to a comfortable pitch, he closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face. He couldn't help thinking back on what Jadzia had said about the Ferengi.

It reminded him of what he'd read about Earth history in class. They really were not that different from what humanity had been like at its worst, hundreds of years ago when capitalism had been the prevalent economic system. He couldn't help feeling a bit sad that instead of trying to rise above their greed like humanity had done, the Ferengi embraced it past what even the most open mind could consider healthy.

Your own family willing to kill you over something as irrelevant as profit–

Bashir stepped out of the shower and shrugged into his pajamas. At least the kid still had a chance, a small one, admittedly, a mere 13.6%, to not end up like Quark. Making friends with Jake was definitely a step in the right direction. Jake was a good kid, maybe some Federation morals would rub off on Nog.

He was about to crawl into bed, had already pulled back the covers, when he heard his console chime the arrival of a new message. Hopefully, that was the replicator code for his dress uniform, he didn't want to disappoint Sisko again if he could help it.

When he called up the message Bashir let out a sigh of relief, it was indeed the secure code for his uniform and not the monthly letter from his mother, something he really was not up to dealing with right now.

-::-

"Computer, Tarkalean tea, hot, extra sweet."

Bashir toed his shoes off as soon as he entered his quarters. His morning shift had been extremely busy, he'd not even had time for a proper lunch. Flu season on Bajor was coming and everyone and their dog had decided that today was a good day to get their inoculations.

Shrugging out of his uniform he grabbed his tea from the replicator. He'd have to hurry if he didn't want to be late for the first contact.

Taking a sip of his tea, he put the mug down on his nightstand and pulled his dress uniform out of his closet and put it on.

Cursing the Cardassian replicators, Bashir looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and cringed.

"What do you think, Kukalaka?" The bear looked at him with black button eyes from where he sat, propped up against a pillow on Bashir's bed.

"Yeah, I agree." Bashir pulled at his uniform trousers again, cringing at just how much they gaped at the waist. There was no hiding that they were 7.9 cm too long and 14.3 cm too wide. All he needed was to replicate a red rubber nose to go with them …

Annoyed at himself for not checking the rematerialization buffers first – it was such an easy thing to fix – he pulled at the trousers trying to adjust them but it was no use, wishing he could replicate a second pair. But the security code was one-use only, so that was that.

"Sisko is going to kill me."

Bashir sat down heavily on his bed. Maybe he could minimize the damage, at least.

Bashir hunted in his closet for a belt, pulled the trousers up to roughly the correct length and belted them in place. Then he sent a silent prayer to whoever had designed long dress uniform jackets, they were going to hide at least some of the disaster the replicator had made of his uniform.

Inspecting himself in the mirror, Bashir gave his image a grim nod. Not perfect, but hopefully good enough for now. He smoothed his hair down with a bit of product, drained the rest of his tea and left to meet his peers at airlock fifteen. If he hurried he could even make it nearly on time.

-::-

It was late afternoon when Bashir signed his name as the physician-on-duty on the Miradorn's death certificate, his lips drawn into a tight line. This was the sixth violence related death certificate he'd had to sign since he'd first accepted his commission, and, frankly, the one duty that he could do without.

As a doctor, dealing with the death of a patient was inevitable and while it saddened him and yes, of course, also stung his professional pride, to lose a patient to illness, that was the course of nature and he could accept that. What he hated about violent deaths was that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, nothing he could do afterward but to note the cause of death and sign the form. There was no cure for a phaser shot to the chest. And of course, Quark had, once again, been at the center of things.

And why? Stupid, barbaric greed.

Bashir had only ever read about what atrocities greed made people commit in the Academy Xeno-Psych and Human History books. And he had to admit that getting confronted by the reality of it, with what horrible crimes greed made good people do, was a far cry more real and disturbing than the answers he'd memorized to pass the finals. It was all so senseless.

Bashir had just pulled up this month's duty roster when someone knocked on the frame of the door.

"I hope this is not an inconvenient time?" a familiar voice asked and Bashir's mood lifted instantly.

"Garak? You're not ill, I hope?" Bashir looked the Cardassian up and down and was about to reach for his medical scanner when Garak held up his hand, stalling him.

"I am the picture of health, Doctor."

Garak smiled at him from the doorway.

"Not that I'm not glad to hear that, but what brings you here then?" Bashir gestured for Garak to come inside. "Looking for a bit of enjoyable company?"

As soon as he'd said the words he mentally kicked himself. He hadn't actually meant to rub in Garak's obvious isolation. Or make a pass at him.

"Uhm, what I meant –"

"As much as I enjoy your company," Garak's voice was teasing, not a bit offended and Bashir relaxed a bit. He actually did like spending time with the Cardassian.

Garak stepped closer, around the medical workstation and into Bashir's personal space, belying the words he spoke next, "I am here on business, not pleasure."

"Business? What kind of –" Bashir gaped at him and then his eyes lit up in excitement. He tapped Garak gently in the shoulder with his index finger. "Spy business, perhaps?"

"Oh, my dear doctor, your imagination is running wild today. I am but a simple tailor on an errand." Garak thrust the parcel he'd been holding at Bashir. "And you, my dear, forgot your purchase."

"My purchase?" Bashir blinked at the soft, paper-wrapped package in his hands. He ran his fingernail under the tape holding the paper together.

"I did say I wanted it, didn't I?" Bashir laughed holding up the yellow and purple shirt he'd tried on during his last visit to Garak's shop against his chest.

"Indeed you did." Garak's cool hands closed over Bashir's, making him draw in a gasp. Bashir's arms felt frozen in space, bent at the elbow their hands joined at shoulder height the shirt a thin, bright barrier between them, he looked down into Garak's eyes feeling very much like the proverbial rabbit in thrall of the cobra. Garak leaned closer, his voice pitched low, seductive, "And far be it from me to question the sincerity of your words."

They were standing close, so close and all Bashir could think of was what a fascinating shade of blue Garak's eyes were, almost as grey as his skin, and just how little it would take for him to lean down and –

No, this was a bad idea. Bashir pulled away just a tiny bit. Not here, not now. Not only was this unprofessional, there also was a 72% chance of someone walking in on them.

"I'm on my break in ten minutes." Bashir took a deep breath, and realizing that he was still holding the shirt between them, pulled his hands out of Garak's grasp and lowered them, absentmindedly dropping the shirt onto his workstation. "Would you care to join me for a raktajino? If you don't mind, ah – waiting."

"But why, certainly, Doctor."

Garak's hands had fallen away from his and Bashir found himself acutely aware that he was now chest to chest with the Cardassian, without the shirt providing a flimsy, but tangible barrier.

"It would be my pleasure. But I hope you don't mind if I skip the raktajino." Garak looked up at him, lips slightly parted, an invitation and a challenge at the same time. "I can think of far more pleasant ways to keep me up all night."

"And what things would that be?" Bashir teased, never been one to back down from a challenge. Unable to stop himself he reached up to caress the twin row of scales that ran from Garak's ear down his jaw with his thumb and –

_"Jabara to Bashir."_

Bashir briefly closed his eyes to compose himself. He took a step from Garak before hitting his combadge to acknowledge her.

"Bashir here."

_"Doctor, could you please come to examination room 3 for a consultation?"_

"On my way." Curse her timing. Bashir gave Garak an apologetic look.

"Make yourself comfortable, I will try to make this quick."

Bashir pulled out his chair, as much a barrier against further temptation as politeness and offered it to Garak.

He was a bit leery of leaving the Cardassian in his office, but throwing him out just to meet up again in a few minutes would be unforgivably rude. And it was not as if this was Ops. After all, there was pretty much nothing in the infirmary's computers that contained classified information. What little there was required a security clearing of five or above, and he himself would not be able to hack into the system in under three minutes. Spy or not, he doubted that Garak would be able to.

-::-

Bashir walked into the infirmary whistling under his breath, still in high spirits from his break. Spending time with Garak always seemed to cheer him up. He was holding the PADD Garak had given him, an anthology of, as Garak had put it 'The Great Masters of Cardassian Poetry'.

Just casually flipping through the book on his way back, Bashir was drawn in by how visually stunning the poems were. Cardassian writing connected sentences and letters into a narrative like pearls on a string, with overlapping axes creating changes in emphasis, the result made the poems not only visually appealing but also allowed for adding layer upon subtle layer of meaning.

He couldn't wait to sit down after his shift and admire them properly and had to apologize more than once for accidentally running into someone, so engrossed was he in the writing. One particular series of poems about the five planets that orbited the Cardassian sun especially caught his interest.

Back in his office, he flopped down into his chair at his workstation, and – oh, that was interesting. Bashir turned his PADD 90º degrees, marveling at how the poem took on a completely new meaning when viewed from a different angle.

Bashir turned his PADD this way and that, fascinated by the subtle shifts in meaning. The ode to the five planets became the praise of the five virtues, became the unshakeable pillars of Cardassian society and concluded in the final wistful line: _no home under no Cardassian sun._

It was truly marvelous. Surely, he had a few moments to spare to look at just one more –

"Doctor Bashir?" Nurse Sarish addressed him from the door and at his nod reluctantly stepped into the room and up to his workstation.

"Yes?"

Bashir sighed and put the PADD down.

She hesitated for a second and just stood there. Her eyes lingered on the PADD, not yet in sleep mode, Cardassian writing still visible and she shook her head, looking resigned. Then, as if she'd won some inner argument, she braced herself, her usually kind expression hardening, settling into forced calm.

"Can I have a word with you?"

"Of course." Bashir nodded and switched the PADD off. "What about? Is there a problem with the schedule?"

"No, Doctor the schedule is fine. This is … personal." She wrung her hands, taking a moment to compose herself. "Doctor, I – we, I mean the nurses, we know that you're new on the station and –" She looked at anything but him. "And we're worried."

"What is this about, Nurse Sarish?"

Bashir sighed inwardly, keeping his tone of voice mild. He liked Sarish, she was reliable and kind and her age made her a seen-it-all island of calm in any kind of emergency. But Bashir had also seen her expression when she had noticed the Cardassian writing on his PADD. And with Garak stopping by earlier, he didn't need an enhanced IQ to guess what this conversation was going to be about.

"It's just that you've been spending an awful lot of time with that Cardassian. And…"

Her eyes flicked back to the PADD on his workstation and Bashir wished he had put it away earlier.

"And?"

Bashir knew exactly where this was going, but if she wanted to say something nasty about Garak she would have to say it herself. He was not going to make it easy, he owed Garak and their friendship at least that much.

"Well, it's just – you don't know what they are like. Sure he seems harmless," she bit the word out as if she had trouble believing it, but was saying it anyway to pacify him, "but Cardassians are never what they seem, Doctor."

"Excuse me?"

Why was everyone assuming that he was in over his head, that he didn't know what he was doing? It was getting old. Yes, he was aware that Garak was a spy, but that didn't mean he'd let Garak take advantage of him or pass on Federation secrets. Garak had passed information to him, for crying out loud, not the other way around.

"Nurse Sarish, I assure you that nothing nefarious is going on." This was not a conversation he wanted to have. "You really don't need to worry about me."

"Doctor, you weren't here during the Occupation. I've seen what they are capable of with my own eyes." She held his gaze, her arms akimbo, giving him a 'I know better than you, young man' look. Then her expression softened, her voice low as she swallowed back what had to be painful memories, "I've patched up their victims more times than I care to remember."

"Nurse Sarish." Bashir sighed and tried again. "Marika–"

It wasn't fair for him to get angry at her for caring. And he understood the source of her suspicion and distrust. Her people had suffered greatly under the Occupation and he understood where she was coming from, but it really didn't sit well with Bashir how everyone treated Garak as if he'd single-handedly committed every atrocity of the Occupation.

"I've read about the Occupation and I understand your feelings, but Garak's my friend and he's done nothing–"

"All I'm saying, Doctor," she interrupted him, visually trying to keep her temper, her words clipped. "Is don't trust him. I know you think he's your friend …" She scowled, fully aware that he wasn't agreeing with her, but continued nevertheless, "But I've never seen one of them being friends with anyone. Not even with each other."

Bashir pressed his lips into a tight line. This was getting personal on a level that would have him lose his temper if he didn't end this now.

"Thank you for your concern, Nurse Sarish," Bashir's voice was firm but polite. There was only so much of this he could take. Sure she meant well, but in the end this was just a kinder replay of what had happened in Sisko's office.

He got up from his chair, indicating that this conversation was over. He gave nurse Sarish a small smile.

"I will not take your words lightly. I promise."

"Just ..." She nodded, relaxing a bit, looking at least somewhat relieved, if it was at the dreaded talk being over or his promise, Bashir could not tell. She gave him a small smile. "Be careful, Doctor."

He watched her leave, still wound up from the indignity of it all, of having his choice of friends and his judgment called into question, – not once, but twice – he started pacing.

They were wrong, weren't they? Bashir examined the facts more closely, an ungood feeling settling in his stomach. He really, really wanted to dismiss her words, shove them to the side, chalk them up to her being Bajoran, ignore them, but …

The crux of the matter was that Garak was spying for the Cardassian government. Garak had conducted business with the Klingon twins representing the interest of the Central Command, had sent them reports containing detailed analysis of station personnel.

Bashir continued pacing up and down his office. Was Garak just using him? Was Odo right, was he just an easy mark?

And then there was the intense sexual attraction between them. There was no way Garak was faking it, but was he taking advantage of it, was he using it? Bashir would be the laughingstock of all of Starfleet if he fell for a honey pot trap with a Cardassian spy of all people.

And that was just the thing, wasn't it? Garak had used him. Garak had played on his fascination with espionage, had passed information on to him.

Bashir replayed their conversations in his mind, but even his eidetic memory could not come up with a single piece of information that he had given Garak that was not common knowledge. All they ever talked about –

Bashir stopped in front of his workstation, and picked up the PADD Garak had given him. It flared to life, showing the poem Bashir had admired earlier. He ran his index finger along the central theme, and smiled. Somehow it drew everything back into focus, reminded him of just how much he enjoyed their literary discussions, their time together, and suddenly he felt guilty for ever doubting their friendship.

They were doing nothing wrong. He enjoyed his lunches with the Cardassian and it wasn't as if other people were lining up to take the spot. He wasn't going to give that up.

-::-

Dress uniform in hand, Bashir wound his way through the evening crowd toward Garak's shop. Even though Garak had assured him that he would be available at twenty-one hundred hours, Bashir felt that it would be rude to be later than actually necessary.

Letting Garak attempt to fix his uniform was a gamble, there was a 74% chance that his uniform would end up a total loss. Bashir had seen the lack of customers and sales in Garak's shop, as well as the user manual for the sizing scanner still left out on the counter for reference, all of which implied that Garak was, to put it kindly, still new to his plain and simple profession.

Bashir grinned. But if Garak was the one to ruin his uniform he could request a new code without the blame falling on him. Traffic through the wormhole was increasing steadily and with it the number of first contacts to be expected in the near future. He really needed a new dress uniform, one way or another.

Garak was sitting at his work station, one hand casually wrapped around a steaming mug, reading something on a PADD. He looked up from his reading when Bashir entered the shop and greeted him with a brilliant smile that Bashir could not help but return.

"I've brought the uniform."

Bashir walked through the shop, noting that Garak had rearranged his merchandise again, and over to where his friend was sitting. He proffered the clothes then scrounged up his nose in disgust. What was that smell, had a vole died in the vents?

Garak seemed to be oblivious to the odor. He picked up the uniform, shaking it out and held it at arm's length inspecting it, his jovial smile sliding into a disapproving frown.

"Oh my, you were right, my dear. This uniform truly is a fashion disaster."

"Says the person dressed like a watermelon," Bashir muttered and rolled his eyes. Garak was wearing the same outfit he had once introduce himself to Bashir in. "I meant that it's the wrong size, Garak. The trousers are too wide and too long and the jacket bunches up in a strange way in the back."

"Watermelon?" Garak raised a questioning eyeridge at him.

"Yes, a watermelon."

Of course, Garak had to latch onto the least important part, Bashir huffed.

Garak looked down at his shirt, puzzled expression on his face. 

"A melon made from water?"

"No, it's a green fruit with red fruit-flesh," Bashir explained, wondering if calling up an image on the computer would help. "In fact," he teased, "the exact same shade as your shirt."

"It's red and green and called a watermelon? How curious." Garak was still staring at his sleeve as if it was the most fascinating thing in the room, then he raised his eyes to meet Bashir's, good humor in his smile. "My, what strange color water must have on Earth. I was under the impression that water was clear. Doctor, do you happen to know if that's due to a mineral compound or the color of the atmosphere?"

"No, it's because the melon contains 91% water by –" Bashir stopped mid-sentence and pursed his lips, annoyed at himself. Why did he only ever catch on to Garak winding him up when it was too late? "Never mind that. Can you fix my uniform?"

"Of course, I can, the recycler is right over there." Garak grinned toothily at Bashir's frown then crossed arms and amended with an exasperated sigh. "Just joking, Doctor, but since you're not in my databank I will need to scan you first."

There was something off about Garak's smile today. Bashir had shared plenty meals with the Cardassian, and while Garak did enjoy teasing him, today he seemed to burn a little too bright.

Bashir took a closer look at the tailor's pupils, which were dilated 20% further than what the dimmed light would require.

He surreptitiously picked up Garak's mug, wondering what it contained. The replicators weren't programmed to serve illegal substances. He took a sniff, expecting alcohol and or one of the more potent psychogenic herbs. What he got instead was the foulest smell he'd ever encountered in his life. It was pungent, lingering on the sweet, rotten side with more than a hint of ammonia.

"What is this?" Bashir gagged and put the mug back down. That smell could hide anything.

"Rocassa juice." Garak took his mug back, downing its contents with relish. "Very nutritious. I can replicate you a glass if you'd like?"

"I'll pass, thank you." Bashir shuddered. "And I have an early shift tomorrow. I really shouldn't be trying any new recreational substances."

"Recreational? Oh you misjudge me, Doctor." Garak laughed at the insinuation. "I can assure you it's 100% benign, if a somewhat acquired taste."

Bashir cocked his head at Garak. Had he been wrong about the intoxication? Garak was belligerent at times, had been so more than once in the past. Toasting Nagus Quark came to mind. Maybe that was just a part of his personality. It wasn't as if there were any other Cardassians to compare him to.

Garak smirked, licking his lips.

"And now, my dear Doctor, if you don't mind." He gave Bashir a smile like the proverbial cat that had just eaten the canary. "Would you be so kind as to take off your uniform?"

"Uh?" Not that he would be opposed to, but –

Garak gestured to the changing room, still grinning.

"Oh, oh of course." Bashir pulled the curtain shut behind him, before Garak could see him blush. He sat down on the small stool provided to pull off his shoes. Damn that Cardassian and his ability to reduce him to a stuttering mess.

Only clad in his underwear, he pulled the curtain open enough to stick his head through. It wouldn't do to give anyone walking by the shop a free show of their CMO.

Garak's hand brushed Bashir's briefly as he took hold of the curtain and stepped into the changing room, scanner at the ready. Bashir suddenly felt his heart thumping in his throat at the touch and half expected Garak to leer, to make an unambiguous offer like he had when Bashir had tried on that wretched shirt. He was almost disappointed when he didn't, when Garak's expression was completely collected, professional.

"Doctor, if you would be so kind as to stand up straight."

Garak frowned at him until Bashir stopped slouching and squared his shoulders.

Garak fiddled with the scanner before stepping closer. The second the cool plastic of the scanner touched the side of his neck, Bashir flinched away. Was that how it was supposed to work?

"Hold still, Doctor," Garak chastised, his left hand pressed flat to the center of Bashir's chest to steady him. The Cardassian's fingers were cool against Bashir's skin, making him shiver at the contact, which earned him another stern glare from Garak.

"It's no wonder your uniform fits as poorly as it does, my dear, if you always fidget like this when scanned for size."

The blue light of the scanner ran along his shoulder and down his arm. Garak's thumb brushed his nipple and Bashir gasped, barely able to bite back a moan. Oh, that's how you're playing it.

"Doctor, I really must insist that you stay still," Garak chided and ran the scanner down Bashir's arm and across his shoulders.

"Then stop playing dirty!" Bashir hissed.

"I have no idea what you're talking about my dear." Garak smirked and dropped to one knee, reaching behind Bashir to scan around his waist.

Bashir could feel his breath through the thin cotton of his underpants. He sucked in a gasp through clenched teeth. There was no way Garak wasn't doing this on purpose. Damn you! Bashir drew in a shallow breath, pleasure washing over him with each teasing puff of air. Please don't stop.

"Left or right?" Garak asked, scanner hovering in front of the outline of Bashir's half-hard –

Bashir tore his eyes away, had to tear his eyes away before – He felt wobbly on suddenly very weak knees, knowing that he should stop this, that this was a bad idea, no matter how much he wanted it, that –

"Doctor?" Garak looked up at Bashir. He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out between slightly parted lips. "Which side do you prefer?"

"Uhm?" I'd prefer for you wrap your infuriating mouth around my cock and – Bashir swallowed hard, trying to form a coherent thought. "Left."

Garak's mouth remained slightly open and Bashir watched it, mesmerized. He tried to be good, tried to resist the temptation to drop to his knees and kiss that teasing, infuriating mouth, to push Garak down onto the shop's floor and finally –

Holding on to the last threads of his self-control he watched Garak run the scanner down Bashir's left leg and Bashir's eyes followed the blue light as it skimmed down his thigh and chin, over his ankle and all the way to his toes and back up.

"Oh my." Garak's thumb caressed Bashir's half hard erection through the material of his underpants. "How ever will I get accurate measurements now?"

"Considering that it is all your fault," Bashir gasped, giving up on any pretense that he wasn't aware of what Garak was doing. He mock-glared down at him. "You could do something about that."

"My dear Doctor," Garak pushed his thumbs under the elastic waistband, pulling Bashir's underpants down past his knees. "How can I refuse, when you ask so nicely."

If Bashir ever had had any doubts about Human-Cardassian compatibility, they went out the window when Garak's mouth closed around him, hot, wet suction enveloping him down to the root.

Bashir steadied himself with one hand, fingers splayed against the wall, worrying his lip, and all he could think was 'finally'.

His free hand reached out to Garak, fingers raking through Garak's hair, his thumb caressing his eyeridge, brushing over the twin ridges that ran from his ear to his chin, the fine scales that covered his skin fascinatingly sleek under the tips of his fingers.

And then Garak did that thing with the tip of his tongue and – Oh God, yes – Bashir's head bumped against the wall behind him, mouth open, panting, knees weak with lust.

He was so close, so desperately close. All he wanted to do was thrust his hips just once, twice, while Garak kept sucking just like that, the tip of his clever tongue pressing just there a bit longer, but Garak, damn him, would have none of that.

Garak's hands were strong and steady on Bashir's hips, keeping him from thrusting, allowing only for what slow, burning pleasure Garak was willing to grant. It was maddening, frustrating.

Bashir had never been so turned on in his life.

And then finally, long after Bashir had tightened his fingers in Garak's hair, had moaned out loud and in the end begged, Garak had finally let go of his hips, allowed him to thrust hard a final, two, three times, had watched him arch his back and had swallowed around Bashir's come, and was now watching him through hall lidded eyes, from where he was still kneeling on the floor.

Bashir held out his hand, still breathing hard. Garak took it and Bashir pulled him off of the floor until they were face to face again.

This time it was Garak who initiated the kiss, reaching up, fingers around the nape of Bashir's neck, thumbs caressing his jaw. The kiss was urgent, passionate and utterly bereft of any kind of teasing.

Bashir wrapped his arms around Garak's waist, worming his thigh between Garak's legs, rubbing it against the very obvious sign of just how much Garak was enjoying this too.

Garak pulled away from the kiss, eyes wild, breathing hard. He planted hot, biting kisses down the length of Bashir's throat, sweetly stinging love-bites that Bashir was sure he'd have to heal later, or he gasped as Garak's sharp teeth nipped at his collarbone, at least the ones that would show above his uniform.

One hand squeezing Garak's ass, Bashir slid his free hand between them, and under Garak's tunic, caressing him through the thick material of his trousers, searching for any kind of zipper or button.

"My dear Doctor…" Garak caught his hand, pulling it away from the fastening, breath coming in deep labored huffs. "As much as I appreciate the gesture–"

"You don't want me to, ah … return the favor?"

Bashir studied the Cardassian's face, trying to hide his disappointment. He wanted to return the pleasure Garak had given him, wanted to see that wild-eyed passion in Garak's eyes again, to crack the always so collected man's calm, make him moan and lose control as pleasure crumbled his emotional walls.

And Bashir had to admit, he was also more than a bit curious about Cardassian anatomy.

"…it is really not necessary." Garak took a step back, smoothing down his tunic.

The rejection stung, made him wonder if this was indeed just part of some elaborate, twisted game Garak was playing for his own amusement.

"Fine." Bashir turned, pulled up his underwear and reached for his uniform, shoulders stiff with humiliation.

"You misunderstand me, my dear." Garak's hand was feather-light on his arm, but Bashir let himself be turned back around by the subtle pressure.

"It's not that I would not enjoy that, quite the opposite in fact." Garak's fingers trailed up the side of his neck, lingering on one of the love-bites he'd left, coming to rest at Bashir's temple, his cool thumb gently stroking up the bridge of Bashir's nose. It was an odd kind of caress on a human, but Bashir enjoyed it nevertheless.

"Then what is keeping you?" Bashir held Garak's gaze. He wet his lips, making it clear that the offer still stood.

"Ah, to be a mammal." Garak's teased, his fingers ghosting over Bashir's eyebrows, down the side of his face. "Yet, I am not and it's a bit too cold in here for my – liking." Garak went on, placing a small teasing kiss on Bashir lips, pulling back before either of them could deepen it. "But if you are amiable for some further _enjoyable company_ , I am sure I can arrange for a setting with a less arctic climate."

"I would like that." Bashir grinned at him with post-orgasmic goofiness. "I'd like that very much.

"I'm glad to hear that." Garak gave him polite smile that was at complete odds with what they had done. "And now, my dear doctor, I'll leave you to get dressed."

And before Bashir could protest, or do so much as even to steal one final kiss, Garak stepped out of the changing room, closing the curtain between them. It felt almost as if a door, that Bashir had barely been aware of having opened, had slammed shut between them.

'What now?' Bashir thought as he got dressed. They crossed the line to intimacy they'd been dancing around for weeks and if it had been anyone else Bashir would have simply asked Garak to dinner and seen where it went from there. But that wasn't an option, not really.

When he stepped out of the changing room, fully dressed again, Garak was already back at his workstation, presumably uploading the measurements from the seizing-scanner.

Bashir watched him work, not sure what to say. He swallowed against the unnamed emotions tightening his throat.

"Uh, I'll be off then." The words sounding trite even to him. "I've got an early shift tomorrow."

"But of course, Doctor." Garak didn't even look up from whatever it was he was doing. "Your uniform should be ready within the week."

"Thank you, Garak. I shall remember to pick it up then."

And with that Bashir fled the shop, making his way down the corridor toward his own quarters, thoughts wild.

Truth to be told he was rather intrigued by the man, and what kept him from taking their relationship to the next level was not that he wasn't interested. Or not even that he couldn't really be sure of the plain and simple tailor's motifs. He rather enjoyed the sense of danger and mystique Garak represented. But that was just it. Garak was a spy for the Cardassian Central Command and any kind of intimate relationship with him would put Bashir under close scrutiny of Starfleet Security, something he could not, would not risk. He'd worked too hard to hide his secret to risk his future like this.

-::-

Bashir yawned and took another sip of his raktajino. He'd stayed up way too long last night talking to Felix, but they'd so much to catch up on. Bashir couldn't believe that it had been almost two months since they'd last talked to each other. It felt good talking to a friend, even though it rubbed in just how isolated from his peers he was.

He swirled the dregs of his drink in his mug, waiting for the caffeine to peak in another seventeen minutes. It wouldn't do to not be fully alert during his shift. A shipment of medical supplies was due to arrive from Bajor and doing inventory was, while not the most thrilling task, one that required full attention.

Bashir was about to get up and get himself another snack, in the vain hope that food could replace sleep, when his combadge chimed, letting him know that he had a message waiting for him on his terminal.

Bashir called it up on his PADD, excited. Felix had promised to send him his newest game, but the message that came opened on his screen was not from Felix. Bashir flicked it shut, taking a deep breath. He really didn't think he could deal with a letter from his mum in public.

He'd deal with that after his shift. Bashir pushed his annoyance into the back of his mind, focusing instead on the hustle and bustle of the promenade. He reached behind his ear and turned off his universal translator, taking in the plethora of alien languages. He liked the station, its rough around the edges multi-species hubbub. His eyes scanned the room for familiar faces, but neither Jadzia nor Garak were around.

He did catch the eye of one of Vulcans carrying a tray of food across the crowded replimat. He gestured toward the empty chair across from him and after a moment hesitation she decided to join him.

Bashir grinned. Once you figured out how their minds worked, Vulcans could be a lot of fun. Or, to put it in the words of the Vulcan in his study group when they were all nerves before an important exam: Sex was one of the best ways to relieve stress and, since they were both attracted to each other, it was the logical thing to do.

Just before she sat down, Bashir noticed out of the corner of his eye, which would have been just out of view for normal humans, Garak lingering near the replicator, a tray in his hands. Bashir felt a pang of guilt, even though they hadn't made any plans. But when he turned his head in Garak's direction, the Cardassian was gone and when the Vulcan woman introduced herself as T'Laina, he gave her a bright smile, stomping on the lingering sense of betrayal. He was being silly, it wasn't as if he'd ditched Garak to have lunch with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the way Cardassian poetry is written is my idea, I did not invent the Cardassian writing system, nor the way it is written along horizontal and vertical lines. You can find an example of it on Memory Alpha under Cardassian Language.  
> http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Cardassian_language


	5. Chapter 5

The queue moved and Bashir stepped forward to keep up as the Bajoran woman in front of him took her tray out of the replicator and made her way over to the tables. She glared at him as she walked by and Bashir felt a painful wave of déjà vu back to his first days on Deep Space Nine washing over him, the tension in the air so thick he could almost cut it.

Ever since they'd come back from the Gamma Quadrant without Kai Opaka, the hostility on the station had increased manifold, nearly back to how it had been when he'd first arrived on the station.

Bashir ordered his lunch, fingers drumming impatiently at the force-field that kept him from reaching into the replicator while it was working. When his food had properly materialized, he took his tray out and sighed. The replicators were off again. 3.7% this time, judging by the smell of his lunch.

For a second, he entertained the idea of recycling his food and trying again with a different dish, but one look at the queue that wound its way halfway across the replimat made Bashir decide that it would have to do. He turned around and searched the place looking for Garak. Trying to find his friend among the diners, he noticed that most of the 43 Bajorans had sectioned themselves off, that the tables were almost neatly divided into two groups.

Garak was sitting at the far end, back against the support beam, and waved at Bashir from across the dining area. Bashir smiled, glad to see at least one friendly face in the crowd and, tray in hand, made his way over to him.

As Bashir walked across the replimat he tried to ignore the whispers, the stares and pointed fingers.

_You were supposed to save her, why didn't you save her? What are we going to do without her? It's all YOUR fault!_

The assumption made him bristle. A Bajoran doctor, even a normal Federation trained doctor, would not have been able to do even half of what he'd done.

His impulse to impress Commander Sisko, admitting to him that he could deactivate the microbes with what meager equipment they'd brought with them to that moon, had more than skirted the line. In retrospect it had been a stupid risk to take, one that would have cost him his career if either Kira or Sisko had any medical training.

With the proper equipment, he would have an 81% chance of rewriting the microbes' DNA, allowing for the prisoners to leave the moon. But that was a moot point, Opaka had made up her mind to stay. She had claimed the Prophets had sent her to that moon, and while Bashir did not believe in either destiny or Prophets, he did believe that she was right. Those people needed her. Their senseless circle of violence had to stop, and if she wanted to take on the task of breaking said circle, good for her. No one should have to live like that.

That the Bajorans on the station resented him for what the Kai believed the Prophets had chosen for her annoyed him. Weren't they the ones that believed in 'The Will of the Prophets'?

When he was halfway across the replimat, Bashir noticed that Chief O'Brien was having lunch with one of his engineers – Neela, if Bashir remembered correctly – and Major Kira. Bashir squared his shoulders and gave them a tight nod as he walked by, trying not to care that not everyone at the table returned it.

The 'right you are, sir' O'Brien had rejected Bashir's offer of friendship with still echoed bitterly in the back of his mind and Bashir held his head up high as he walked past Chief O'Brien and sat down across from Garak. He tried not to dwell on how the Cardassian spy seemed to be happier to see him than any of his colleagues.

"Hello Garak." Bashir unwrapped his cutlery from the napkin, noting that Garak hadn't started eating, had waited for him, his food still covered to keep it from getting cold. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting, the queue was really long."

"It was only a couple of minutes, my dear, don't worry about it." Garak unfolded his napkin with a snap of his hand. "How was your trip to Bajor, Doctor?"

"It's a long story." Bashir sighed. He had to admit that he was a bit surprised that Garak had agreed to have lunch in the replimat at all. After Kai Opaka's death and her resurrection via artificial microbes, the atmosphere on DS9 was definitely not what he would describe as pleasant for anyone Federation, never mind anyone Cardassian.

"I'm all ears." Garak lifted the lid off his bowl, a cloud of savory steam rising up into the air, making Bashir inhale deeply. Maybe he should just stick to Cardassian dishes from now on; the replicators seemed to handle them with a much smaller margin of error.

"A very long story." Bashir shook his head, not willing to let O'Brien ruin his first pleasant lunch in a week. "Another time, perhaps."

"But of course, Doctor." Garak have him a sympathetic smile. "It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back. I missed our lunches." Bashir returned the smile. "That smells delicious, what is it?"

"It's a dish from the Elar region. Slow cooked regova stew," Garak supplied, draping his napkin over his leg.

"Do you mind if I try a bite?" Bashir's hand, fork at the ready, hovered over Garak's bowl.

Garak gave him an amused look but scooted his bowl closer. "Be my guest, Doctor."

"Thanks." The meat was tender and slightly gamy, complemented by a fruity, spicy sauce that left his lips burning and made him reach for his juice. "This is nice."

Bashir stole another bite before Garak defended his lunch with his lid.

"If you enjoy it that much, my dear," Garak pulled the bowl closer to himself, pointing his spoon in the direction of the replicators, "I would be delighted to get you your _own_ bowl."

"But where would be the fun in that?" Bashir grinned and licked his fork clean. "It's your turn to choose dessert, however."

"I shall endeavor to please." Garak nodded gravely, good humor in his eyes. "There is a rokassa fruit flavored custard I think you'll enjoy, Doctor."

Bashir made a face.

"I've started the anthology you gave me," Bashir changed the topic and stabbed at one of his chips, using his knife to scoop some mushy peas on it. "I have to say I find the rotating style very intriguing. I've never come across anything quite like it."

"The style itself dates back to the Hebitians. It is one of the most elegant forms of poetry, if I may say so." Garak's knee pressed against Bashir's under the table. "But what do you think of the poems themselves, Doctor? Did you enjoy them?"

"Yes, I did. Very much so." Bashir pressed back, the gesture halfway between companionable and flirtatious. "I particularly like _Renora's Sacrifice_."

"Ah, Iloja of Prim." Garak gave him an approving look over a bite of his stew. "I do agree, dear Doctor. _Renora's Sacrifice_ is one of his best works."

"I hadn't taken you for such a romantic, my plain and simple friend," Bashir teased.

"But ah, my dear doctor, _Renora's Sacrifice_ is not supposed to be romantic at all." Garak pursed his lips in disapproval. "It's a sad and cautionary tale about the downfall emotional decisions bring in their wake."

"That's not how I interpreted it at all. I thought it was rather romantic, not cautionary." Bashir pointed his fork at Garak, defending the poem. "The way she chooses him over her duty, doesn't that pull on your heartstrings?" He took a bite of his fish. " _You before the state_." Bashir quoted in Cardassi. "That's my favorite line."

"It's misguided." Garak put his spoon down and picked up his mug of red leaf tea, giving him an indulgent smile. "But I agree, Iloja turns a wonderful phrase. Very classically elegant."

"Romantic." Bashir smirked at him, rubbing his foot against Garak's. "And so you do like it."

"I do remember saying that I, in fact, admire this particular poem, Doctor." Garak looked at Bashir's nearly finished plate, shaking his head. "But, my dear doctor, you have to admit that by choosing him she doomed herself and her father. How is this not misguided on her part?"

"But you know, that's what makes it romantic." Bashir huffed.

"Excuse me, Doctor?" Garak's voice turned exasperated as he put his mug down with more force than necessary. "Are you Betazoid?"

Bashir gave him a puzzled look. "No, obviously not."

"Then why do you presume to know what I know?" He inquired, fixing Bashir with a piercing stare. "Anyway that's such a human interpretation."

Garak had rested his elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his tea. He smiled at Bashir over the rim of his mug in the most condescending, infuriating way.

"It's just a figure of speech!" Bashir glared at him, bristling. "And, well, I happen to be human."

He put his cutlery down and leaned forward on the table, palms flat on the surface, not willing to give an inch.

"I won't hold your species' limitations against you, my dear."

Garak raised a challenging eyeridge at him, their faces but inches apart. There was a slight blue tinge creeping up Garak's ridges and Bashir wondered, for a brief second, if that was the same as a human getting red in the face.

"How _very_ kind of you. I shall endeavor to do the same. Bashir held Garak's gaze for a moment longer, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Within my human limitations..."

There was nothing he'd like to do more right now than grab that infuriating Cardassian by his shirt and – Bashir wetted his lips –

"Doctor Bashir, Mr Garak."

Nurse Jabara cleared her throat, hovering by their table. They both turned in unison and Bashir willed down a blush. He couldn't believe how close he'd come to kissing Garak in the middle of the replimat.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but may I have a quick word with you, Doctor?" She looked from Garak to Bashir and back. "In private."

"But, of course." Bashir dabbed his mouth with his napkin, putting it down next to his plate, addressing Garak with an apologetic smile, "If you'll excuse us, this won't take a minute."

"That's quite alright, my dear." Garak returned his smile. "I won't be going anywhere."

Jabara lead Bashir a couple of tables away, out of, Bashir noted with amusement, Cardassian earshot.

"What can I do for you?" Bashir raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

"Actually." She smiled knowingly. "I was wondering if you needed a way out. That argument you had with Mr Garak got pretty intense."

"Uhm, thanks, but it's alright, really." Bashir gave her a reassuring smile. Had they really been that loud? "I hope we didn't disturb anyone, we're just having a friendly argument about poetry."

"Not more than Mr Garak's presence would anyway." She tilted her head at him. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

"You didn't." Bashir narrowed his eyes at her odd inflection, not quite sure what to make of it. "Now if you don't mind, my lunch is getting cold."

"Doctor." She inclined her head as a good bye and Bashir heard her mutter to herself as she walked away: 'I hope you know what you're getting yourself into'.

When Bashir sat back down at the table Garak raised a questioning eyeridge at him.

"Uhm," Bashir tried to hide his embarrassment by picking up and fiddling with his cutlery. "It seems our argument had gotten a bit … loud."

"Ah, I see." Bashir could hear the suppressed laughter in Garak's voice. "We shouldn't be disturbing the other diners, should we?"

Garak took a sip of his tea. "That would be rude."

Bashir snorted. Contemplating the unappetizing remainders of his lunch, he sighed then pushed his plate away.

"I wish those replicators would stop malfunctioning."

"I'm sure now that Chief O'Brien is back on the station they will be fixed in no time." Garak tilted his head at him. His ridges had returned to nearly their normal shade of grey but started to slightly darken again as he picked up their previous conversation. "But, my dear, I have to say your idea of romance is rather strange."

" _My_ idea of romance is strange?" Bashir felt Garak's knee once again press against his and drew in a sharp breath, surprised at how much he enjoyed that simple touch.

"Why yes." Garak beamed at him. "In Cardassian literature, making such a selfish choice is not considered true romance, quite the contrary." He leaned in closer, voice almost conspiratorial. "Did you not read _The Waves Touch Kinar Bay_ , my dear Doctor?"

"Of course, I did, my plain and simple friend." Bashir grinned, mimicking Garak's tone. "He throws himself into Kinar Bay so that his love is free to marry the Legate."

"Now that is true romance." Garak sighed with a genuine sad, wistful smile on his lips.

"Ah, so the Cardassian idea of romance leans towards tragedy." Bashir nodded to himself, thinking that in that case Garak would definitely enjoy 'Romeo and Juliet'. "Humanity has a fair few works like that, too."

"Do they? You definitely must introduce me to one or two, my dear," Garak's knee was pressing against his again, "but I am not sure I would call _The Waves Touch Kinar Bay_ a tragedy, Doctor."

"Cardassians must have a very different idea about tragedy," Bashir stated, noting with interest how Garak's neckridges turned a darker shade of blue at his words. "He dies and she marries someone else, I find that quite tragic."

"But, my dear Doctor, his sacrifice does save the state and creates lasting peace," Garak pointed out, his tone implying that every child knew this.

"It does? How so?" Bashir blinked, even more intrigued. "I have to admit I seem to be missing the historic context."

"The poem is actually based on one of the greatest works of Cardassian literature, _The Neverending Sacrifice_." Garak reached over and briefly covered Bashir's hand with his own. "It's a personal favorite of mine, Doctor. I have a copy in my quarters; I shall fetch it for you later."

"Thank you, Garak. I would very much like to read it." Bashir smiled at his friend. "Now, what was that about you picking out dessert?"

-::-

Bashir evaded the emu that was still roaming the promenade. It glared at him with black, beady, avian eyes and Bashir sped up, not in the mood to wrangle imaginary –but all too real– wildlife. Didn't they have security for this kind of thing?

He had about one hour before the meeting Sisko had scheduled. The subspace disturbance was getting more and more out of hand, growing at a disturbingly consistent 11.45% per hour. But at least Odo had succeeded in clearing the promenade and confining all civilians to their quarters, leaving the walkways eerily deserted, but making it possible to move without being delayed by the panicked masses.

He'd treated the oddest kind of injuries today, many of them where he really didn't want to know how they'd come to pass. Like Ensign Li's half-burned face.

Bashir felt a bit guilty. He'd left the infirmary under the sole care of Nurse Jabara after Nurse Sarish had lost her usually cool composure and started crying when her long dead son walked into the room. She'd gone home to have a lie-down. At least Jabara had promised to comm him if necessary. Before imagination had struck, he'd planned to have lunch with Garak. But clearly that was not going to happen, and since Garak had not responded to his messages, Bashir thought he should check up on his friend.

And then it started snowing in fat, white, mid-winter flakes. He held out his hand, catching flakes on his palm that promptly melted but Bashir could not help but marvel at the tiny burst of cold. This was really a most intriguing phenomenon.

Whatever it was that was causing this, it showed you what you desired most at that moment. He was just glad that he'd woken up to an imaginary Dax, and not an amorous Garak. Bashir made a face; now that would have been a tad awkward to explain. Thanking his subconscious for its timing, he grinned, even though he was still slightly embarrassed by how submissive that fantasy Dax had behaved, more like a holosuite character than the real version. He probably had to _thank_ Felix and his own love for trashy holo-novels for that.

At least he had not inadvertently spilled his big secret to the world. But talking about people with secrets…

What was it that Garak desired? A pretty Dabo girl? A lost love from his past? Or perhaps –

Bashir smirked and hurried up toward the habitat ring, not willing to let this opportunity pass.

He turned the corner to level H-3 and only his enhanced reflexes allowed him to flatten himself against the wall in time. First one, then another phaser blast sped a mere five centimeters past his head and hit the support beam to his left.

Bashir pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. Those shots had come from a Bajoran phaser, they made a very distinct sound, and had hit the beam at a height of 1.75meters. That together with the incoming angle of 32º, as well as taking into account that the Bajoran militia shot from hip level, put the shooter at 1.62m. Just like a certain …

"Major!" Bashir called out to her, now rather annoyed. Had she not seen him? "You nearly hit me!"

Who was she shooting at anyway?

"Nerys, can't we talk about this? Over a glass of kanar?" Someone skidded to a halt right in front of him and Bashir's jaw dropped. Dukat was on the station? No, he couldn't be, Bashir thought, feeling foolish for a second. He had to be part of that phenomenon.

"Duck!" Major Kira hollered and Bashir threw himself to the side, barely evading her phaser-fire. Again. He rolled to his feet, glaring at her.

Dukat was not so lucky. The phaser hit him straight in the chest and he sank to his knees clutching his stomach, a pained expression on his face. He looked up at Bashir, blue eyes wide with shock, as if he couldn't understand what had just happened, before he tilted sideways, slid to the floor and vanished.

"Third time's the charm!" Major Kira announced triumphantly, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, face flushed. She sounded chillingly self-satisfied. "I'm starting to see the merits of this phenomenon."

Three times? You'd think she would have gotten this out of her system by now, but apparently not. At least she wasn't killing real people.

"That's the _second_ time you nearly hit me! I'd appreciate it if you took greater care where you aimed." Bashir crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Someone's going to get hurt."

"Scared?" She grinned up at him and he swallowed hard at the way she was twirling her phaser around. "Don't be such a big baby. I told you to duck, didn't I?"

"That's not the point," Bashir snapped.

"Ah, Major Kira, Doctor –" A smirking Dukat rematerialized behind her. She turned and punched him in the face without warning. He stumbled backward, caught himself against the wall and smoothed down his hair.

"Now really, Major, is that necessary?"

Dukat took one look at her phaser and started running down the deserted corridor.

"Prophets, that feels good."

She shook out her hand.

"I think I'll make him beg this time." She contemplated, then set her phaser to stun. "I like it when he begs. Now, if you'll excuse me, Doctor."

Phaser at the ready, she took off after Dukat.

Bashir shook his head. He was all for closure, but that was not healthy on any level.

-::-

When he chimed the door to chamber 901, it swished open without much delay, enveloping him in a gust of hot, humid air that made him shudder at the sudden temperature change.

About to reach out and greet his friend, Bashir realized his mistake and took a step back. The Cardassian that smiled at him from the door was not Garak. The man was of similar built, but slightly taller than his friend with wider shoulders and Bashir snickered, a good 10 kg lighter.

"You must be Doctor Bashir!" A friendly hand clasped him on the shoulder and led him into the room. "Son, your friend is here!"

"Uhm…" Bashir let himself be pulled into the room. He had never been in Garak's quarters before, and this was not at all what he'd expected. Had Garak not been sitting at computer console, he would have thought that he had knocked on the wrong door. This was not a standard single living unit, but a mere 24 m² in size, one room with attached bathroom unit. Guest quarters.

"It's great to finally meet you, Doctor. My son has told me such nice things about you." Garak Senior's hand patted him avuncular on the shoulder. "Glad you could make it to his going away party."

"Uh, going away party?" Garak's leaving? Bashir thought, then gaped at Garak Sr. He could not be much older than Garak himself, in fact, if asked to guess, Bashir would have estimated his age at least a decade or so younger. And then the penny dropped and Bashir swallowed hard. That stupid phenomenon. Poor Garak.

"Why yes, hasn't he told you?" Garak Sr. crossed his arms in front of his chest, giving his son an indulgent smile. "We're going back to Cardassia tomorrow. Going to spend some time in the countryside, aren't we, son?"

Garak was ignoring them in favor of watching something on his console, a glass of kanar next to him, but Bashir noticed Garak's back stiffen and his jaw set defiantly at his father's words, making Bashir cringe in sympathy. Garak's status as an exile was well known on the station; of course he'd want to go home.

"Be a dear and ask your friend if he'd like a cup of red leaf tea," a woman's voice addressed not him, but Garak. His mother – Bashir assumed – was sitting on the armchair next to the computer console, the coffee table in front of her overflowing with food. Bashir studied her face, looking from her back to Garak, deciding that while Garak had inherited the shape of her brow-ridges, overall he favored his father's side.

"That would be lovely, ma'am." Bashir smiled at her, hovering awkwardly by the bed. With her sitting on the armchair and Garak on the office chair behind the console, there was nowhere else to sit. He took in the plethora of unfamiliar dishes. "Did you make those? They look delicious."

"Me? No." She snorted at the mere idea. "I'm not much of a cook. We brought these with us from Cardassia–"

"Your son's dear friend comes to visit and you offer him tea?" Garak Sr. interrupted her and reached across the bed, pressing a glass with clear amber liquid into Bashir's hand. Bashir took it, not wanting to offend.

"Best kanar you'll ever have!" Garak Sr. tapped the side of his nose. "My own private reserve. To your health, Doctor!"

"Thank you, sir." Not wanting to be rude Bashir braced himself, took a sip of the kanar and was pleasantly surprised. Garak Sr. had not been lying. The kanar was surprisingly good – for kanar – lacking the undertones of overripe rokassa fruit and acetone that Bashir had anticipated.

"Won't you at least introduce us to your friend?" the woman chided.

Garak looked up from the console, eyes lingering on Bashir. "You're real then?"

Bashir nodded, at a loss for what to say.

When Garak finally got up from his chair, and just before he flicked off the view-screen, Bashir caught a glimpse of Major Kira manhandling a shirtless Dukat, pushing him roughly against a bulkhead.

Bashir shook his head. Really not healthy, Major.

"What brings you here, Doctor?" Garak's smile bore but a shadow of his usually charm. He sounded weary, defeated.

"Well, actually I wanted to see if you're alright." Bashir stepped closer and put an awkward hand on his friend's arm, gaze briefly flicking over to where Garak's mother was busying herself by filling plates with food. And I don't think you are.

Garak closed his eyes for a brief moment, resting his forehead against Bashir's shoulder. His arms closed around Bashir's waist and fisted into the fabric of his uniform with desperate strength.

Bashir slid his free hand up Garak's shoulder to the nape of his neck, pulling him further into the embrace. They stood like that for moment until Garak let out a shuttering hiccough of a breath and relaxed against him. Bashir pressed his forehead against Garak's, his fingers gently carting through his friend's sleek hair, soothing, reassuring, trying to ease the hurt of something that was not within his power to change.

When Bashir looked back up Garak's parents were gone. As was the food on the table. The only thing that remained were two empty bottles of kanar and the glass in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~"You before the state" is borrowed from another fic, at least I think so. I've searched both through my hard-drive and on Google, but I cannot find it. If you know what fic that is from, please let me know and I will credit the author.~~
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> Thank you, Marina+D.+Rei!  
> "You over the state." is from "A Handful of Dates" by KanarandTarkaleanTea"  
> Go read it, it's an awesome story!
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> http://archiveofourown.org/works/762779?view_full_work=true


	6. Chapter 6

"Doctor, what can I do for you?"

Garak smiled up at him from where he was kneeling on the floor, hemming a dress.

"Did you finish my dress uniform?" Bashir flopped down on one of the visitor's chairs and buried his head in his hands. "Please tell me you did."

"But of course, Doctor. Let me get it for you."

Garak got up from the floor and put his sewing tool down on the console. He disappeared in the back of the shop only to reappear a few moments later, holding Bashir's uniform hung neatly on a wire-hanger.

"Thanks." Bashir rubbed his hands over his face, pressing his palms down on his eyes to relief tension. "Are you hiring?"

"My dear Doctor, I would never hire someone with your deplorable opinions on fashion," Garak teased. "But I've been told that the jumja stall is looking for help."

"I'll keep that in mind." Bashir snorted, amused despite himself.

"I can't help notice that something is bothering you, Doctor."

Garak draped the uniform over the back of his workstation and pulled open one of the drawers.

"The Ambassadors, perhaps?" Garak continued when Bashir just sighed theatrically.

Garak nodded sympathetically and took out a bottle and two glasses.

"And how do _you_ know about that?" Bashir turned to glare up at him. "Have you been spying on me on the security feed?"

"I hate to shatter your delusions, my dear."

Garak poured both of them a drink and nudged Bashir until he took his tumbler.

"Thanks." Bashir cradled his glass in his palm. Right now, even kanar would do.

"But after that little incident with Ambassador Troi at Quark's…" Garak pulled the second chair closer and sat down next to Bashir. "Everyone knows."

"That's just great." Bashir groaned, looking down at his hands. "I swear Sisko assigned them to me as a punishment."

"Now you are exaggerating, my –" Garak pointed his glass at the door, looking amused. "Observe!"

It took Bashir a moment to figure out what exactly he was supposed to watch, but when he finally did he couldn't help but smile. Odo trying, very unsuccessfully, to evade Ambassador Troi was a sight to behold.

"You'd think a shapeshifter would be better at hiding." Bashir took a sip of his kanar, the strong liquor burning in his throat as he swallowed it. He suppressed a cough.

"They do make a fetching couple, don’t you think?" Garak remarked, amused.

"She's not so bad," Bashir swirled his drink in is glass. "In comparison."

"Oh dear." Garak put a sympathetic hand on Bashir's shoulder and Bashir leaned into the touch.

"You have no idea." Bashir sipped at his kanar again. It was true what they said, the taste improved the more you drank of it.

"May I suggest taking them down to engineering?" Garak gave him a patently false, innocent smile. "I am sure Chief O'Brien has dazzling tales of the heroes of core-reactor fusion."

"I am sure Chief O'Brien would _enjoy_ that, but he's busy in Ops."

Bashir downed the contents of his glass, and shuddered, the warmth of the potent drink settling in his stomach.

"As much as I prefer your company, I have to get going if I want to drop those off in my quarters before I pick the Ambassadors of Unhappiness up at the Ore Processing Center. Major Kira is teaching them about the station's history." He pushed himself up from the chair with a grimace. "And even if she shoots one of them, the rest will want to go to that briefing at oh-four-hundred hours."

"Thanks for the drink, Garak." He held out the empty tumbler to Garak, flashing him a tired but genuine smile. "And for listening."

"Any time, my dear. Any time."

Bashir picked up his dress uniform and returned the Cardassian's smile. He slung his uniform over his back, holding the hanger on two fingers.

"Until tomorrow."

-::-

Garak swiftly entered the code to the holosuite he had rented for the afternoon. He greeted Bashir with a small, formal bow as the doors swooshed open.

"Welcome to Cardassia."

Bashir stepped onto the path that wound through alien vegetation. He hadn't been quite sure what to expect, but the lush vegetation that greeted him reminded him of Earth's tropical jungles.

Garak entered behind him, standing at Bashir's shoulder, and then the doors closed and the program's atmospheric settings activated.

For a brief moment Cardassia's heavier gravity made Bashir's knees buckle, and he would have stumbled, if not fallen, but for Garak's steadying arm around his waist.

The humidity was set to 70% but the heat made it feel even more intense. The sudden change from the station's comparatively cool standard of 21ºC to Cardassia's scorching 34ºC did not help either.

Bent forward, hands pressed against his thighs, Bashir breathed shallowly, trying to overcome the intense nausea caused by the sudden drastic change in gravity and climate.

"Doctor?" Garak's hand lingered on his back, rubbing gently. "Are you alright? Do you want me to adjust the program to be more suitable to humans?"

"No, I'll be fine. Just give me a moment." Bashir's vision swam and he shook his head briefly, willing the world into focus and his stomach to calm. He gave Garak a wobbly smile. "If you change the settings, then it wouldn't be Cardassia, would it?"

"While that is true, my dear," Garak gave him a mildly concerned look, "I'd rather do that than have you faint on me."

Sweat formed on Bashir's forehead and he was glad that he had taken Garak's earlier advice and had taken the time to chance into an old Academy t-shirt and shorts. He took a shallow breath.

A brilliantly green bird swooped down from one of the mighty trees, screeching as it descended.

Another breath or two later, his body acclimated to the alien atmosphere; the uncomfortable pressure lessened and the heat became more bearable. His enhancements did have advantages at times.

"Much better now," Bashir said, meaning it. He straightened his back and looked around in wonder.

Stepping onto Cardassia, even holosuite created Cardassia, was thrilling. The light was different – dimmer, warmer. Cardassia's massive sun was low in the sky, though Bashir could not tell if the direction meant morning or afternoon.

"I am glad to hear that." Garak gave his shoulder a fond squeeze, before letting go. "This way, my dear."

Garak led them down a narrow winding path of moss lined paving stones worn smooth with millennia. Condensation hung thick in the air and dripped in fat drops from the leaves of various lush ferns and brightly fluorescent bromeliads.

Bashir looked around in awe. Orange sunlight streaked through the vegetation, filtered through leaves and fog, and deepened the browns and greens, softening them, as if Cardassia was stuck in an eternal, glorious sunset. The beauty of a dying star.

Bashir's eyes soon adapted to the unfamiliar wavelength and he felt a bit of a loss as the colors took on their familiar hue. The flora and fauna, at least, stayed fascinatingly alien.

"It's stunning."

Bashir admired the scenery. He didn't have to turn to feel Garak's proud approval.

Strangler vines cut into the trunks of the mighty trees, looping around them and between the branches, across the path and upward, creating patches of twilight, bright with bio-florescent mushrooms cascading down the trunks of fallen trees.

"Yes, it is." There was a wistful undertone in Garak's voice that made Bashir reach out and briefly squeeze his hand.

Bashir stopped in the middle of the path and looked around. The effect the heavier gravity had on the native vegetation was remarkable. The trees towered at 18 meters but instead of forming a huge canopy like the rainforests on Earth, they had thick trunks that were much wider at the bottom and tapered off toward the sky. Their thin, almost delicate branches, with their spidery leaves and brightly colored flowers, reminded Bashir of tropical weeping willows.

Tiny insects flitted between and around them and Bashir wondered if they would sting if not for the holosuite safeties. The air was heavy with the at once familiar and alien smell of decaying wood and the sweet perfume of tropical flowers.

"Is all of Cardassia this green?" Bashir asked, looking over to his friend.

All entries he'd been able to find had indicated the opposite. Though technically classified as a class M planet, Starfleet's database claimed that Cardassia was skirting the very edge of that classification, bordering on an inhospitable L, and lush jungles did not fit that classification at all.

"Once it was, but these days…" Garak shook his head sadly. "Most of Cardassia is arid grassland. It has its own stark beauty but –" Garak gave him a bittersweet smile before he continued, "Nothing but a few precious jewels have remained. And even those, only with the help of localized climate control."

"What caused the climate change?" Bashir looked around, feeling a pang of sadness that all this natural grandeur had disappeared.

"Some say it was a natural disaster, others that the Hebitians over-farmed, and that population pressure and deforestation led to an ecological disaster." Garak turned away from him, and look up at the trees. He seemed to be searching for something. "Changes in climate can have such a devastating effect on a planet, can they not?"

"Earth has had her own share of climate disasters." Bashir nodded. "In fact, a meteor strike caused the extinction of the dinosaurs and let to the rise of the mammals."

"Our saurian ancestors must have been made of sterner stuff than whatever you evolved from," Garak replied, absentmindedly, attention now fixed on one particular tree.

"You'd be surprised." Bashir snorted. Maybe a holosuite trip to Earth's Jurassic period was in order.

"But I do hope, Doctor, that Bajor gets spared this kind of disaster."

Garak seemed to have found what he was looking for and stepped off the path. He took a few steps toward an imposing thick-trunked tree and pulled a small switch-knife from his pocket. Carefully, almost tenderly, Garak selected one of the bright-orange orchids and cut one single flower from the moss-heavy branch.

"They will recover, in time."

Bashir refrained from pointing out whose fault the damage was to begin with. There was a 79% chance of recovery, but it would take at least another decade. The environmental destruction the retreating Cardassian forces had wreaked upon the Rakantha Province and the Northwest Peninsula was pretty intense.

"Isn't this a remarkable flower?" Garak held the orchid out to Bashir for inspection, clearly expecting some kind of response.

Bashir reached for the flower, his fingers brushing against Garak's palm, lingering for one tantalizing second. The jolt of desire that went through him as their fingers touched made him look up from the flower and into Garak's eyes, seeing the same desire mirrored there.

Garak's lips were slightly parted, his neckridges beginning to darken and changed color. Bashir grinned. Glad to see we're on the same page.

Bashir leaned in closer and whispered, his lips but millimeters from touching the twin ridges that ran from Garak's chin to his ear, "So you're saying you want to be _pollinated_?"

"Doctor, really –" Garak snorted but whatever comment he'd wanted to make was swallowed back as Bashir's breath ghosted over his skin.

When Garak grasped his shoulders Bashir leaned forward, expecting a kiss that never came. Instead, to his disappointment, Garak gently pushed him away.

"As much as I would very much enjoy such a _biology lesson_." Garak gave him a heated look, letting out a low hiss that made Bashir's breath catch in his throat, before he continued, "But sadly I did not anticipate your generous offer, and turning off Quark's surveillance devices now would only pique his interest."

"Quark records the holosuites?" Bashir yelped, scandalized. His hands dropped away from Garak to his side, and he took a step back, putting a more proper distance between them, suppressing the sudden intense arousal at the idea of someone watching. "That is unbelievable!"

His mind frantically replayed everything he'd done in the holosuites since he'd come to the station and he let out a relieved breath when he couldn't come up with anything majorly embarrassing.

"I fear, my dear, when it comes to dealing with Ferengi, it is all too believable."

Garak picked up the orchid he had dropped and looked at it as if he had to concentrate to remember what he planned on doing with it. Bashir found his concentration oddly endearing.

"Would you like me to help you pick flowers for a lei?" Bashir teased and waggled his eyebrows at Garak.

Garak gave him a puzzled look then shook his head slightly.

"But oh, my dear Doctor. This is no simple flower." Garak admonished him gently, ignoring Bashir's comment about flower necklaces.

"It isn't?" Bashir leaned closer, suddenly intrigued.

Garak bent down and picked up a long blue pine-needle and gently lifted the orchid's anther cap with it. Furious buzzing was the result and a small grey wasp with electric blue, faceted eyes ferociously attacked the pine-needle.

"The soldier wasp uses the orchid as camouflage, and when an unsuspecting bee pollinates the orchid, it lays its eggs on it." Garak removed his pine needle and the angry buzzing subsided. "Then the bee carries them unknowingly back to its hive –"

"Where they hatch and –?" Bashir interjected.

"And in their larva state they burrow into the bee's body, slowly eating it alive from the inside out. They're quite the tenacious pest." Garak gave him an odd little smile. "Quite formidable, don't you think?"

"That's utterly revolting."

"Isn't it?" Garak beamed at him, pressing the orchid into his hands. "I thought you'd think so."

"Uhm, Garak?" Bashir stared at the orchid for a moment, bemused as to why Garak had given it to him, before looking back to Garak for instructions. "What do you want me to do with this?"

"That is up to you to decide, my dear."

Garak gave him an encouraging little smile.

"Is it?"

Bashir rolled his eyes at Garak's cryptic answer and when Garak did not elaborate, tossed the flower into the underbrush.

He might have been wrong, or maybe he had imagined it, but there had been something in Garak's tone that almost reminded him of that time Garak had shoved him into the dressing room and demanded he try on a jacket. But before he could dwell on it, examine the possibilities Garak's hand settled on his shoulder and gently urged him to continue walking.

The path was narrow and with Garak walking a few meters ahead of him, Bashir couldn't help notice how much smoother the Cardassian's movements had become with the heat. Never torpid, Garak now walked with the effortless grace of a predator. That he couldn't reach out and show Garak just exactly how much he appreciated the view on a convenient patch of soft looking moss made Bashir curse Quark and his surveillance.

After a couple of minutes, they came to a matching pair of crumbling stone pillars, their elaborate cravings weather worn and partially covered in moss, giving only a hint of their former glory.

"Here we are, my dear." Garak gestured toward the pillars. "The Regent's Garden."

The jungle abruptly stopped when they stepped through the gate, untamed wilderness giving way to sculpted shrubs and well kept lawns.

"The Regent's Garden is in He'naktar, the ancient capital of the Hebitian civilization," Garak explained and led them up a small hill.

"Have you been here before?" Bashir asked, stepping up to walk next to Garak, as the now wider, gravel path allowed for it.

"It's out in the countryside, quite popular as a weekend destination for families." Garak gave him a bright smile, that didn't ring quite true with Bashir. "They used to have riding hounds for the little children.

"But come, Doctor." Garak's hand gently pushed at the small of Bashir's back. He gestured toward the top of the hill, where a decorative gazebo stood on the hilltop in the distance, providing shade from the heat of the sun. "You look like you could do with some refreshments. A nice cup of Tarkalean tea, perhaps?"

A drink – perhaps something cold – did indeed sound good. The heat was starting to get to him, his t-shirt sticky with sweat. Walking uphill was strenuous in Cardassia's higher gravity, each winding, laborious turn taking them up higher, above the canopy of trees.

Garak was a couple of steps ahead of him when he finally reached the top. Bashir stretched out his arms and turned his face into the wind, welcoming the breeze after the sticky heat of the jungle.

He squinted at the horizon and in the far distance Bashir could make out the silhouette of what had to be He'naktar – or whatever the city was called these days – in the haze. Maybe one day he'd have the chance to visit these gardens for real.

When he turned back, Garak had already sat down in the gazebo and ordered the computer to set up some kind of board game with yellow and blue game pieces on the wooden table.

Bashir sighed inwardly. He didn't particularly enjoy board games. The only challenge they presented was how to lose in just the right way so that his opponent wouldn't notice they were being humored. He much preferred their literary discussions since he didn't have to dull his intellect for them.

But he liked Garak and enjoyed his company. Playing along and letting Garak win two out of three games should keep the Cardassian happy and Bashir's abilities hidden.

He slid onto the bench opposite Garak, grateful that the Cardassian had taken the seat in the direct sun, leaving Bashir the cooler shade.

"Computer, Tarkalean tea, iced, extra sweet." Bashir raised a questioning eyebrow at his friend.

"Computer, one rokassa juice, hot," Garak ordered and Bashir groaned but said nothing. The wind would hopefully take care of the smell. How Garak could enjoy a hot drink in this heat was beyond Bashir, especially since Cardassians did not sweat.

Their drinks materialized in front of them and condensation instantly formed on the outside of Bashir's glass. He reached for it and leaned back, draping his free arm over the back of the bench as he gulped down half of it in one go.

Bashir grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling it up to wipe the sweat off his face. "Do you mind if I take off my shirt?"

He tilted his head at his friend, wondering if that would violate some kind of Cardassian social norm.

"Not at all, my dear."

Garak smiled brightly at him, cradling his mug.

"Thanks." Bashir shrugged out of his shirt, and tossed it onto the bench next to him. He stretched, and sighed with relief as the breeze cooled his bare, sweaty skin. "Much better."

"I completely agree."

Garak licked his lips, smiling innocently.

"Class of 2368?" Garak gently teased, giving Bashir's t-shirt a pointed look.

"I haven't gotten around to getting many clothes yet." Bashir shrugged, then grinned sheepishly. "And with the replicators not working as they should, it was this or that Ferengi style shirt you sold me."

Garak snorted.

"My dear Doctor, if you ever feel like wearing adult clothes, I have a new range of Enaran cotton shirts that would be very flattering on you."

"I might take you up on that offer." Bashir rolled his eyes at him, taking another sip of his tea.

"But do tell, Doctor, has anyone ever introduced you to a game called Kotra?" Garak gestured at the board game set up on the table in front of them.

"No," Bashir shook his head then smiled. "But I’m a quick learner."

"How wonderful." Garak held up one blue and one yellow game piece on his open palms. "Now, my dear, do you want to play the Vorcal or the Kelden?"

The rules, as Garak explained them, were straightforward, but like all games with deceptively easy rules, Kotra presented an enticing challenge.

Strategy games tended to present no challenge, the outcome was too easily calculated, but Kotra – or more accurately, Garak – did prove to be different.

Every time he thought he'd figured out the odds and played his hand accordingly, Garak made an unexpected move forcing Bashir to scrap his previous calculations and start anew. Being challenged, actually challenged at a game, was something that had rarely happened to him since his parents had seen fit to _improve_ him, and that Garak was keeping him on his toes was exhilarating.

When Garak had suggested they'd play, Bashir had planned on letting him win to keep up his cover. But after Garak had genuinely called out his second Ko and then Tra, had effortlessly wiped the floor with him, Bashir was intrigued. This was not a scenario that had ever occurred to him and as much as he enjoyed winning, genuinely losing was exciting on a whole new level.

They were twenty minutes into their third game and Bashir was about to move his Gul into his first Ko, when the computer announced the end of their holosuite time. Had they already been in here for two hours? It really was true what they said about time going faster when one enjoyed oneself.

"That was fun, Garak." Bashir stood up and reached for his t-shirt, holding it in his hand for a moment before putting it on, wishing they could stay longer. "Shall we call it a tie?"

"My dear, you might even have won this one." Garak pushed himself up from his seat and tilted his head at him, calculating eyes fixing him for a split second. "You are indeed a quick learner."

Bashir felt a shiver run down his spine that melted into pleasure when Garak gave him a fond smile and declared cheerfully, "So a tie it is!"

The sudden cold stark darkness that came with the program ending was nearly as much of a shock as Cardassia's atmosphere had been initially. He unconsciously stepped closer to Garak, laying his hand on his friend's shoulder as much as a gesture of comfort for Garak as for himself.

"My treat next week?" Bashir suggested, hoping that Garak would agree.

"I wouldn't miss it in the world, Doctor." Garak gave him an oddly formal bow. "May I ask where you plan on taking me?"

"The polar regions of Earth," Bashir teased and at Garak's alarmed look added, a grin forming on his lips. "Don't worry, I'll chose somewhere warm." Holding Garak's eyes he wetted his lips. "And I'll talk to Odo about Quark."

 

 

-::-

Bashir yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth since he was the only one still in the infirmary at this hour. He was just about finished tidying up and was looking forward to leaving. He hadn't even been on call tonight. And if not for the impromptu briefing that Sisko had summoned them to in the wake of renewed Circle activity, Quark's injury was nothing one of the nurses wouldn't have been able to handle.

The Circle really had the most inconvenient timing. Ensign Jenkins would have gone to bed by now, regrettably alone. His chances of continuing where they'd left off had flown out of the airlock two hours ago. Bashir sighed. It really was a shame. Their date had progressed all the way to her quarters when the Circle had decided to so rudely interrupt them. He'd have to make it up to her tomorrow, if she was still interested.

But at least he was done here. Nurse Surmak was on call and sleeping on the small bed in the back of the office. He could hear her soft snoring all the way to the examination room.

It had barely been a year and already the illusion of a stable Bajor had been shattered. Hadn’t these people had enough of fighting? Bashir shook his head, slamming the drawer shut with more force than he had intended. It was all just so stupid. The chances for lasting peace were dropping drastically with each terrorist act and right now, even in his most optimistic calculations, it never managed to reach double-digits.

What Bajor needed now was to work together, to rebuild their society and all that had been lost, not more hate and destruction and death. After the firebombing of Mrs O'Brien's school and that murder attempt on Vedek Bareil, Bashir had hoped that Li Nalas would be a uniting force to turn things around. He hated being wrong.

The attack on Bareil had made it more than clear that they wouldn't stop at the murder of a Vedek. Had Quark been tonight's only target? If anyone else was a prime target for The Circle…

Bashir felt the blood drain from his face. How could he have forgotten about Garak? There was a 63% chance that – The unbidden image of Garak hurt, unconscious and alone, formed in his mind and Bashir felt cold, hard dread form in the pit of his stomach. Garak better be okay.

He hastened down 226 meters of corridors, stood an agonizing 10 seconds in a turbolift, to continue on for another 183 meters before he reached Garak's quarters. At least at this hour, no one was in the way slowing him down, but the dimmed lights and wavering shadows only added to his unease.

Bashir came to a panting, sliding stop in front of chamber 901, his hand pressing the door chime frantically. Please be okay.

The door swooshed open but before he could so much as announce his presence, or apologize for waking his friend, a hand closed viselike around his wrist and pulled him into the pitch black room.

Bashir yelped as he found himself spun around. Heart thumping, trying to will down the panic as the attacker's other hand closed over his mouth. When Bashir finally gathered his wits enough to fight back it was too late, his arm was already twisted behind his back, and his attacker held him trapped against the already closed door.

Shit.

Bashir cursed, his face pressed sideways against the cold, hard metal, his arm twisted behind his back. He was screwed. He couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't even see the outline of the doorframe. He knew he should have alerted security, but no, he just had to rush in head first.

Willing himself to focus on assessing the situation – there still was a 43% chance of him getting out of this if he stayed calm and played his hand well – Bashir stopped struggling. The attacker didn't know about his enhancements: he was stronger and had much better night-vision than the average Bajoran.

The Circle had gotten to Garak. Not good. There was an 87% chance that they'd severely injured the Cardassian. A 17% chance that – No, thinking about that wouldn't help him, or Garak. Bashir closed his eyes and listened.

No matter how he strained his hearing, Bashir couldn't make out another person moving or breathing in the room. There only seemed to be one attacker. Bashir stomped on the flare of panic at the absence of any sign of life from Garak. He had to stay calm, focused. The quicker he could free himself, the quicker he could get Garak to the infirmary.

His attacker was 8.9 cm shorter then him and stockier. Bashir took a deep breath, the air making a sucking sound through his attacker's fingers as he breathed in. He could do this, Bashir told himself. It shouldn't be too hard, right? After all he'd dealt with similar situations before, given only in holo-novels, but how different could it be? All he needed to do was free himself long enough to get access to his combadge and then security would hopefully take care of the rest.

Bashir was about to forcefully snap his head back at an angle that with 83% certainty would cause his attacker a broken nose, when he felt cool lips brushing against his ear and suddenly the puzzle pieces fit together. Stocky build, the exact height difference, cool lips –

"Garak? It's me. Are you alright?" Bashir gasped, words muffled by Garak's hand that was still clamped tight over his mouth. Relief washed over him in giddy waves. That had been close. He really didn't want to hurt his friend.

"You'd better be quiet, my dear."

Garak let go of Bashir's arm, then tugged gently at his shoulder to get him to turn around. His other hand, though, stayed firmly, frustratingly put on his mouth, keeping Bashir from asking even one of the dozens of questions he had.

Only seconds had passed since he'd been in the comparatively well light corridor and Bashir's eyes just now adjusted to the darkness in Garak's quarters. He looked at Garak's face, at his familiar scales and ridges and captivating grey eyes and a torrent of tightly entangled emotions washed over him. Grateful for the door supporting his back, Bashir let out the breath he'd not been aware he'd been holding. Garak was okay. He didn't know what he would have done if –

Garak's lips brushed over Bashir's jaw, snapping him out of his reverie, making him gasp.

Garak's hand though, to Bashir's confusion, remained firmly over his mouth. It was starting to annoy him.

"Ga–ak? –u c–n –"

"Odo has been so kind as to install surveillance in my quarters," Garak interjected. "For my own safety, I assume."

 _That's illegal_ was the first thought that came to Bashir's mind.

This should have been the cue for Bashir to leave, to stutter out an apology and go back to his own quarters. Right then and there. Nothing had happened yet that was even the slightest bit suspicious or against the regulations. He'd worried about a friend and checked up on him. Perfectly normal and understandable.

But then Garak's leg shifted provocatively between Bashir's and Bashir swallowed hard. The way Garak was pinning him effortlessly against the door, the hint of danger exhilarating. Like he had stumbled into the middle of a holo-noir.

Odo, and heavens knows how many security officers, watching was darkly arousing in a naughty, illicit kind of way and the possibility alone had him hard and panting. Though it was also the only thing holding him back that made him cling to the threads of his better judgment.

"But not to worry, my dear." Garak nipped at Bashir's ear. "I've disabled the video."

No visual? Bashir's breath hitched. He'd only have to disguise his voice. This was dangerous and very ill advised and – it was thrilling.

Bashir flicked the tip of his tongue against Garak's fingers, wormed it slowly, teasingly between them, the texture of the fine scales excitingly sleek and just the tiniest bit rough where they overlapped.

Garak drew in a surprised breath, fixing Bashir with a heated stare. His hand pulled away from Bashir's mouth, thumb lingering for a second over Bashir's lips and Bashir nipped at it, sucking it briefly in between his lips.

Garak's hand slid down over Bashir's throat, his fingers curling around the back of Bashir's neck. Garak's thumb lingered over his Adam's apple, stroking up and down, caressing with just enough pressure to make Bashir gasp with the hint, the promise of danger.

If he refrained from speaking Standard he'd have a 67% chance of not getting caught, raising it to 85% if he kept his voice low and conversation to a minimum. A shiver of anticipation ran through him. Good enough.

Bashir swallowed hard, lips slightly parted as he searched and held Garak's gaze. When he had Garak's full attention he reached up behind his right ear to turn his universal translator off.

" _I'm not worried,_ " Bashir whispered in Cardassi.

Garak's eyes widened and his hand tightened ever so slightly around Bashir's throat.

The kiss that followed was hard and messy, all tongue and teeth and pent up desire. Consequences be damned, he had no willpower left to deny the burning, maddening lust that had been building without sufficient release since the day he'd first met Garak.

They tumbled backward, bumped into Garak's desk and Bashir took the opportunity to trap Garak against it. He slid his hands down Garak's back and gripped the edge of Garak's pajama top, pulling it up and over Garak's head. Garak arched into his touch, raising his arms in an effort to help.

Tossing Garak's shirt unceremoniously over his shoulder, Bashir toed off his own shoes and reached out to caress Garak's chest. He growled in frustration when instead of scales he found another layer of clothes.

He tugged at the thermal shirt and then finally, when he pulled it loose from Garak's pajama trousers and slid his hands under and up, did his fingers glide over sleek alien scales.

Garak moaned and grasped Bashir's head between his hands, kissing him with desperate ferocity. Bashir tightened his grip on Garak's back, pulling him impossibly closer. This was hot and exciting and wrong and he never wanted it to stop.

Breaking the kiss Bashir slid to his knees and hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Garak's pajama trousers. He licked his lips.

_"My turn."_

Bashir locked eyes with Garak and when Garak didn't make any motion to stop him, gently pulled down Garak's pajama pants, freeing his erection.

Even as enhanced as his night vision was, with only the dim standby glow of Garak's console to go by, all he could make out where gray shapes, devoid of color. It really was too bad.

Bashir considered calling for light, but didn't, afraid that it would shatter whatever spell they both seemed to be under. And he wanted this. Hopefully, there would be other times when he could get a good long look.

Garak leaned back against the desk for support, his fingers curled around the edge of the tabletop. He looked down at Bashir with undisguised want.

That he couldn't see well didn't mean Bashir wouldn't make the most of it. His thumbs traced the thick, elevated scales that ran along Garak's hipbones to his pubic sheath and, Bashir licked his lips, his fully erect cock.

Wondering for a split second what kind of stimulation Cardassians would find pleasurable Bashir decided that considering how amazing the blowjob Garak had given him had felt, it couldn't be too different from what humans enjoyed.

Holding Garak's hips steady he licked up the length of his cock and after a very encouraging moan from Garak, wrapped his lips around the head, drawing it in as far as he could manage.

Garak's reaction was all he could have hoped for. Strong hands slid into his hair, cradled the back of his head and held him with just the right pressure as Bashir pulled back a little only to swallow him again, lips wrapped tightly around the hot alien length of Garak's erection.

"Stop," Garak's gasped, his breathing was ragged, his legs trembling. "I want –"

Bashir gave the tip of his cock a final teasing lick that made Garak shudder and worry his lip.

Before he could protest, Bashir was pulled to his feet and found himself soundly kissed. Garak's hands made short work of his uniform, teasing his erection through the cotton of his underpants, making Bashir moan and yield into the caress.

They stumbled a few more steps, their kiss frantic now with teeth and tongue and lips. There was nothing gentle to that kiss, only raw need. Bashir vaguely remembered where Garak's bed was, before he was spun around and pushed face first half onto it. Garak's arms circled his chest and he was on him trailing sharp kisses up the side of his neck.

Then Garak's hand slid down between them, over the small of Bashir's back, between his cheeks and Bashir moaned when a finger pressed down on the tight ring of muscle, circling, teasing but not yet breaching.

" _Yes_ ," Bashir hissed and suddenly Garak's weight was gone, and Bashir heard him slide open a drawer, rummaging through the contents.

Bashir could hear the click of a bottle being flipped open and then Garak's weight was back together with slick fingers that gently prepared him and nipping kisses on his shoulder.

When Garak finally pushed in, Bashir worried his lip and dug his fingers into the sheet, shivering under the intoxicatingly alien feel of Garak's cock sliding into him in one slick, erotic thrust of obscene ease.

Bashir reached for Garak's hand where it grasped his hip, entwined their fingers, and pulled their joined hands onto his erection.

As much as he enjoyed Garak's solid weight on his back, the feel of his pubic scales against his ass with every hard, deep thrust of their fucking, he wished he could twist his neck further back and kiss Garak, capture those teasing lips and sharp tongue in a biting kiss, but their difference in height made that impossible. Next time, they'd have to do this face to face.

Garak gripped him harder and Bashir arched his back into each thrust, deliciously close yet not wanting it to be over when Garak tightened his grip on Bashir's shoulder and leaned down, sinking his teeth into the nape of Bashir's neck and with one final, powerful thrust he shuddered and came, his fist on Bashir's cock speeding up, pulling him over the edge with him.

Panting and spent, he gently pushed against Garak's shoulder and rolled out from under him, pulling himself fully onto the bed. He patted the bed, making room for Garak to join him.

Garak looked at him with an unreadable expression before climbing onto the bed next to him.

"One moment, my dear." Garak reached under his pillow and pulled out a disruptor that he then carefully placed on the floor next to them.

Bashir felt a thrill of excitement wash over him. Of course a spy would have a disruptor under his pillow. But he had to admit that with the Circle out and about, it was a sensible precaution.

Bashir's fingers ghosted over his shoulder where Garak had bitten him, feeling a bruise already forming.

"I –" Garak caught Bashir's hand in his own and pulled it away, not meeting Bashir's eyes. He rolled onto his side and reached down, rummaging in the nightstand drawer. Garak held out a small dermal regenerator to Bashir. "Let me?"

" _Thanks,_ " Bashir whispered and squeezed Garak's hand, before leaning back and offering his neck for Garak to heal.

For a long moment they just lay there, until Garak shivered and rolled off Bashir, reaching down to retrieve the blanket. Bashir turned onto his side, grasping a corner, he pulled the blanket over both of them.

Garak settled against him, half on top of him and Bashir was certain he heard Garak murmur “so warm” into his shoulder as his eyes drifted shut.

He couldn't have slept more than a few minutes when he woke to Garak's soft lips pressing gentle kisses along his jaw. He turned toward Garak, threading his fingers into the jet-black hair, pulling him into a kiss that was drowsy and sated and comfortable.

"That was lovely, my dear." Garak pulled away slightly, pressing his forehead briefly to Bashir's. "The latinum is on the nightstand."

The latinum? Bashir looked over to the empty nightstand, puzzled. What would Garak give him latinum for? It took him a moment to comprehend what Garak had just insinuated, having only holo-novels and what he'd overheard during his infrequent visits to Quarks to draw from. Had Garak just called him a prostitute?

Bashir smacked him in the shoulder, rolling on top of him, glaring down at the amused Cardassian. And while that was a rather ingenious way to disguise Bashir's identity even further, something with that comment didn't sit right with him. Paying someone to have sex with you was just – wrong.

Garak tried to pull him down for a kiss, but Bashir evaded him, nipping him in the ridge that ran along his chin instead.

_"Whores don't kiss."_

 

-::-

With the attack on Quark last night, the threat The Circle represented could not be ignored any longer and the whole station had been put on heightened security. Bashir frowned at the presence of the two Bajoran security guards Odo had placed outside the infirmary, not convinced they made the infirmary less of a target.

But even that could not dampen his good mood. Last night had been beyond fantastic, and on top of that, when he'd arrived at the infirmary this morning he'd had a message waiting for him saying that his essay on the prison moon microbes had been accepted by the Starfleet Medical Journal for publication.

Whistling the theme to his favorite holo-novel under his breath, he replicated himself a raktajino. He yawned while waiting for the replicator to finish, resting his hand on the wall for support. It wasn't as if he had spent much of last night actually sleeping.

"You're in an awfully good mood today, Doctor," Nurse Sarish commented as she finished up her inventory of the hyposprays. "I take it the date with Ensign Jenkins went well?"

"A gentleman doesn't …" Bashir evaded, taking a sip of his raktajino to avoid having to elaborate further.

"You're no fun!" she declared in mock outrage and picked up the hypospray case to return it to storage. She shot him an amused grin over her shoulder before she sat down at the adjacent console to work on next month's tartha-pox vaccination schedule.

Bashir took his mug and settled behind his work station, calling up this week's inventory reports. Most medicine and medical equipment could be replicated as needed, but some of the more dangerous substances needed his approval and supervision as CMO.

Working alongside Sarish was pleasant. She had a calm way of working that did not make him feel like he needed to fill the silence with nervous chatter. He was halfway through going over last month's use of restricted substances when the guards changed shift, their muffled voices audible to him even through the closed doors.

_Kala Larem, security. Bajoran, female, 32 years old. 1.73 meters tall, bloodtype 2-0 C. Due for her tartha-pox refresher shots next month. Pral Kepel, security. Bajoran, male, 39 years old –_

Bashir yawned and dug his fingernails into his palm, forcing his mind to stop reciting irrelevant information about the guards now stationed outside the infirmary.

Annoyed at himself for losing control like that, he got up and replicated himself another raktajino. He really hadn't gotten much sleep last night.

"Jumja tea?" he offered, addressing Sarish.

"Thank you, Doctor." She looked up from her console to smile at him. "Light on the sugar, please."

Sitting back down he tried to concentrate on his work, but the guards' conversation about the latest Circle activity and what had happened last night to Quark kept interrupting his train of thought.

Bashir flicked his eyes over to where Sarish was working. She appeared undisturbed by their gossiping. Bashir took a sip of his raktajino, cursing his enhancements. She probably could not hear them at all.

Feeling his eyes on her she looked up.

"Yes?"

"Nothing," he lied. "I'm just a bit tired today."

She nodded.

"You were the one who had to patch up that Ferengi, weren't you?"

"Yes." He yawned again, hiding the goofy grin that was threatening to break out on his face at the memory of just exactly why he was tired, behind his mug. "I think I will make it an early night today."

"Let's hope Ensign Jenkins won't be too disappointed," Sarish teased.

"I'm sure I can think of a way or two to make it up to her."

Bashir took a sip of his raktajino.

They both turned back to their work, and the busy silence that settled in the infirmary refused to let him tune out the guards' conversation.

Pral Kepel snickered nastily.

"Did ya hear about the security tape?" The man asked, the soft musical lilt of his eastern accent coming through, even with the universal translators.

"The one with the Cardie?" Kala made a disgusted noise. "Yeah, I was on duty. It’ll take a lot of spring wine for me to forget that."

Bashir felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn't expected the rumor mill to be quite that fast. They hadn't figured out who – had they?

"So, which one of the Dabo girls did him?" Pral continued, sounding morbidly curious.

"Shhh. Not so loud." Kala hissed and continued in hushed tones. "Don't let that Federation doctor hear you. He's friends with that _Cardassian_."

Yes, he is. Bashir glared at his console.

"And that wasn't a girl," Kala said with a snort.

Bashir's eyes widened in disbelief at the statement. Was that considered taboo on Bajor? They were behind on many social issues, so maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Sometimes he wondered if they'd actually be ready to join the Federation at any time soon.

"So, how much do ya think he paid?" Pral sucked the air in through his teeth. "Couldn't have been cheap."

"I really have no idea." Bashir could hear the disgust in her voice. She paused for a moment before continuing, "How strapped for cash do you have to be?"

Bashir let out the breath he'd been holding, feeling a bit smug at the successful deception.

"I've seen the girls they forced… it wasn't a pretty sight." Pral shrugged, the shifting of his uniform like nails on chalkboard on Bashir's temper. "They don't do gentle."

"Yeah." Kala agreed and Bashir could hear the shudder in her voice. "I wonder if anyone has been in yet to get patched up."

Bashir bristled. He had most definitely not been forced into anything. His fingers itched to touch the spot where Garak had bitten him on his shoulder and he felt a pang of petulant regret that he'd let Garak heal it.

"And they're so cold and grey, it's like getting touched by something long dead."

The memory of Garak's hands on his skin sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. There had been nothing cold about Garak's touch. Nothing at all.

Bashir ground his teeth and flicked his eyes over to where Sarish was working and he wished he could tell them off, but he wasn't supposed to be able to hear them.

There were footsteps coming down the corridor and the guards fell silent for a moment. Bashir let out a sigh of relief. Maybe they'd start talking about the weather or something. He had no such luck.

"So, who do ya think it was then?" Pral picked up the previous conversation without missing a beat, the gossip apparently too juicy to let it drop that easily. There was that nasty laugh again and Bashir glared at the door, willing him to shut up.

"No idea," the woman bit out the words, revulsion obvious. "But it has to be one of us."

"Ya can't be serious! No one Bajoran would –" Pral's exasperated yelp was loud enough that it even made Sarish look up briefly.

Bashir kept his eyes fixed on his console. The last thing he needed was to hear her opinion on that latest bit of station gossip. He all too well remembered their little talk about Garak.

He really should get back to work, should ignore them, but it was like they said about watching a runabout accident happen. No matter how horrifying the view, it was impossible to look away.

"Keep it down, will you!" Kala shushed him and continued, explaining, "They were speaking Cardassian. Who else around here can? And pretty much anyone off-world uses some kind of translator."

"Prophets, that's disgusting," Pral hissed. "The Occupation's been over for a year, who'd stoop that low?"

Pral was pacing now, Bashir could hear his footsteps coming and going.

"Fucking collaborators," Pral spat, having worked himself up into bright, self-righteous anger. "We should've put all of them against the wall when we had the chance. I mean it would be bad enough if he'd hired one of the regular Dabo girls, but a Bajoran? Fucking Cardassians, they really go out of their way to humiliate Bajor, don't they? Things like that almost make ya think the Circle's got a point."

"Don't let the boss hear you," Kala gasped.

"Just saying, just saying," he relented.

"Anyway, we'll be the first to know." Kala shuddered, her tone nasty as she continued, "They're bound to show up at the infirmary."

He really didn't need to hear that. It was ugly and vicious and he wished he could go and confront them about it. But he wasn't Ferengi and – curse his augmentations – had to bear their insults, pretending not to hear them.

The good feeling that had enveloped him earlier gone he sighed and turned back to his work, the urge to get out of here growing.

Bashir reached up to his ear, activating the personal setting of his universal translator.

"Computer: Music. Bashir, playlist seven; 1960's. Setting: Private."

Bashir sighed and let the music wash away some of the negativity. He should have done that ten minutes ago.

 

-::-


	7. Chapter 7

Bashir hastened down the busy corridor, pushing and shoving his way through the throng of people. With only three hours and thirty-seven minutes to spare before the Bajoran assault vessels were due to arrive at the station, the evacuation was in full swing.

The Rio Grande had already started boarding and he would have to assume his post at the airlock in 17.8 minutes.

They only had space on the transports for 79.5% of the residents and for his own peace of mind, Bashir was going to make sure a certain plain and simple tailor was not left behind. The survival chances of a Cardassian on a Circle controlled station were less than zero.

Dodging people carrying their various belongings as best they could, he looked around with grim sadness. It was hard to believe that this could be the end, that they might leave this station and Bajor for good. What the Federation did here and the work they would have to abandon was important. That all their effort to help Bajor would come to nothing was a tragedy.

"Garak!" Bashir chimed the bell to Garak's quarters. The computer had confirmed that Garak was indeed home, so why wasn't he answering?

"I know you're in there. Garak!"

Bashir chimed the door again. Garak would be on that transport, if he had to sedate him and beam him there personally.

"Computer: open door. Medical override –"

The door swooshed open before Bashir could finish his command and Garak greeted him with a bright smile and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

"Good afternoon, Doctor."

"Ah, good, you're ready to go." Bashir let out a relieved sigh. He'd been worried that he'd have to argue with his friend about this.

"Should I be offended by how eager you seem to get rid of me?" Garak teased and Bashir rolled his eyes at him.

"Yes, that's precisely it," Bashir muttered, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. "Let's get going, shall we?"

The corridors were bustling with people ready to board the transport ships, conveniently allowing them to walk closer together than would be appropriate under normal circumstance.

Bashir's hand brushed Garak's and he caught it, squeezing it briefly, letting go before anyone could notice.

"I hope you aren't planning on doing something _patriotic_ like staying behind to fight The Circle, my dear."

"I could ask you the same thing," Bashir teased, grin sliding into a slight frown when he realized that evading the question was an answer in itself. Then he shrugged. Garak seemed to know already anyway and of all the people on the station he was the least likely to rat out their plan to The Circle.

"But Doctor, I am but a simple tailor." Garak huffed with mock sincerity. "And while I think even you would agree that The Circle could do with some fashion advice, I mean, burgundy robes?" Garak shook his head in disapproval at the color choice before continuing in a teasing tone, "Whatever gave you the idea I'd try to spy on them?"

"My mistake," Bashir scoffed, "Stay to patriotically hem their trousers."

They stopped at the airlock where the Rio Grande was docked. People were already queuing up, with Ensign Vilix'pran in charge of the boarding procedure.

"May I see the list, Ensign." Bashir held his hand out for the PADD, checking it to make sure Garak's name was still securely on it.

Garak had stepped off to the side, out of the way of the boarding residents and was smiling his most pleasant customer service smile to counter the muttered slurs and hostile stares directed his way.

_Prophets, he just had to be on our transport!_

_Why does that Cardassian get a seat?_

Bashir sighed and handed the PADD back to Vilix'pran with a nod. He walked over to his friend, ever so slightly positioning himself between the Bajorans and Garak.

"Well, here we are." Bashir fidgeted, rocking back on his heels, suddenly tongue-tied.

"You're staying, Doctor?" Garak gave him a wry smile, his tone not quite a question and Bashir nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"You know I can't answer that." Bashir pressed his lips together. He'd hoped Garak would drop the topic.

"I must say it always comes as a surprise to me when our people agree on something." Garak fixed him with his grey eyes, his voice mild, sounding as if he had expected that answer.

"And what exactly do we agree on?" Bashir blinked at his friend, not sure he liked the idea of Cardassian and Federation moral overlap.

"That our first duty is to protect the state and her interests." He gave Bashir an approving nod. "Very patriotic."

"We're stay–" Bashir stopped himself barely from blurting out the obvious. Taking a deep breath he continued, "What we are _doing_ is trying to keep Bajor from throwing itself into a civil war."

Bashir rolled his eyes at his friend. It was the right thing to do, that Garak would interpret that as patriotic was so very Cardassian.

"However noble a sentiment that is, Doctor," Garak reached out and squeezed Bashir's shoulder. "I'd personally prefer it if you didn't sacrifice yourself for the state."

"That is not –" Bashir huffed, but then relented, taking the sentiment for how it was intended. He gave Garak a lopsided smile.

"I will try my best."

Garak's hand fell away and he dug in his pocket, pulling out a datarod.

"For you, my dear." He handed the datarod to Bashir, fingers touching for a moment longer than necessary.

"Thank you." Bashir took the datarod, its lingering warmth sending a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He inspected it, as if by merely looking at it he could identify the contents.

"It's a book, Doctor." Garak gave him an amused little smile. "The Neverending Sacrifice. A classic. I would love to hear your opinion on it."

"Thank you. I don't think I will have much time –" Bashir swallowed around unnamed emotions. "But I am looking forward to discussing it with you once you're back, Garak."

Bashir slid the datarod into his pocket.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get you –"

"That's quite alright, my dear." Garak smiled at him and Bashir felt like a heel that he didn't have anything to give his friend in return.

Bashir returned Garak's smile. "I'll make it up to you when you get back."

The promise that he would return, that everything would work out in the end, hovering in the air between them.

"I'd better go take my seat." Garak raised his right hand, palm out, in the way Bashir had been taught in his etiquette classes equaled a handshake in Cardassian culture.

Bashir pressed his hand to Garak's.

"We'll always have He'naktar," Bashir teased, or had planed for his tone to be teasing, light, but instead it came out wistful.

Garak raised an eyeridge at him, a bemused smile forming on his lips, but then nodded.

"That we will." Garak inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Farewell, Doctor."

Bashir held Garak's eyes for a moment, trying not to calculate the possible outcomes.

Then on impulse, just as Garak started to pull his hand back, Bashir reached out and hugged the Cardassian, not caring about the scandalized chatter his gesture of affection caused among the Bajorans.

-::-

Quark leaned onto the bar and pushed a tumbler with what looked like a Ferengi Black Hole over to Bashir.

"I didn't order that."

Bashir eyed the drink suspiciously. The memory of the hangover he'd had the last time he and Dax had had that particular drink was still fresh and painful in his mind.

"Can't an honest businessman not show how much he appreciates his regular customers?"

Quark gave the tumbler another gentle nudge.

"I'll ask Garak when I see him."

"Funny," Quark deadpanned but then fell silent, eyes flicking over to where Jadzia was sitting, and Bashir had a sudden, strong suspicion why exactly Quark was being so uncharacteristically generous.

"How is she doing?"

Quark gestured over to where Dax was having dinner with a Ferengi freighter captain.

"She's doing remarkably well," Bashir said.

Which was nothing but the truth. Both Jadzia and Dax were recovering well and he'd given her the all clear just this morning.

"So are you." Quark gave him a look at was all too knowing.

Bashir ignored the remark about his personal feelings toward Jadzia and eyed his untouched drink with suspicion.

"The question remains, why are you giving me this?"

"I thought it would be nice if we had a drink." Quark looked like he was about to pat him on the back but then changed his mind. Instead he reached under the bar for a second glass and poured himself a drink, raising it in toast.

"Together, as friends."

"Am I to assume this is on the house?"

Bashir picked up his own drink, oddly moved by this offer of friendship.

"Now, let's not be hasty. For you, a 20% discount."

Quark's sighed, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully over his earlobe.

"Make that 30%."

Jadzia laughed, clearly charmed by something the freighter captain had said and Bashir felt his eyes drawn back to her.

"We make a pretty good team, don't you think?"

Quark's words snapped him back to the present and Bashir had to admit, that despite everything, they did. He wouldn't have been able to subdue the Klingon without Quark's diversion.

Taking a leaf out of Jadzia's book, Bashir gave Quark a friendly nod.

"A toast!" Bashir raised his glass toward Jadzia. "To teamwork!"

And while the whole mess had been initially Quark's fault, he had to give it the Ferengi, Quark had risked his own life to save Jadzia. And it had been at the last minute, too.

Keeping Jadzia alive long enough to recover the Dax symbiont from Verad, past what would have been possible even for the specialized doctors on Trill, was one of the proudest achievements of his life. One of the few times he'd been grateful for the enhancements his parents had forced on him.

Synthesizing the symbiont's hormones in just the right amount and at the right time to mimic its presence had never been successfully done for more than three hours. He'd kept her alive for nearly six. That no one would ever know just how extraordinary it was what he had achieved – for once – didn't bother him at all.

"She's something, isn't she?"

Quark rested his head on his hand, sighing wistfully.

"Yes, she is."

Bashir took another sip of his drink.

"Doctor, are you going to be alright?"

Quark wiggled the bottle at him, offering a refill.

Bashir looked over to where Dax was flirting with the Ferengi freighter captain, running her index finger tenderly over his earlobe, and to his own surprise felt happy for her.

Her recent brush with death had made him realize something important: while he loved her – part of him probably always would – he knew now that they had something better, a friendship that if he was as lucky as Sisko, would last more than one lifetime. He didn't regret risking the exposure of his secret to save her life. The universe was a better, brighter place with her in it and that he could call himself fortunate that they were friends.

He held up his glass for a refill and smiled.

"Yes, I think I am."

He turned to the pensive looking Ferengi.

"Quark, I was wondering." Bashir swirled the remnants of his drink in his glass, remembering something important he'd meant to ask Quark.

"When you got Odo out of that box Verad had locked him in, the way you picked that lock –"

There was a 36% chance that he could successfully replicate what Quark had done to pick the Delgorian locking mechanism to free Odo from memory alone, but he was more than a bit curious what other tricks the Ferengi had up his sleeve. Dax was right, they really were a lot of fun once you looked past the profit.

"Now, Doctor _pick_ is such a harsh word–"

Bashir grinned, watching Odo frown at them from the corner of his eye.

"Would you mind showing me how?"

-::-

Bashir sat at his workstation in the infirmary and stared at the death certificates he had yet to sign.

_Cause of death: Transporter accident, re-materialization failure._

He'd let them die.

Bashir ran his hands through his hair, pressing his palms down over his eyes and immediately regretting it, the stark afterimages of their half-materialized forms flickering out of existence searingly fresh in his memory.

He could have saved them but he let them die to keep his secret.

"Computer: File death certificates Anjohl Jontar, Ro Leeta and Shakaar Danoel. Authorization: Bashir, Omega-Four."

He'd been in ops when the Bajoran freighter's distress signal had come in. Reactor core failure.

Ensign T'Leynti had been on duty at the transporter. If only it had been O'Brien. He'd have seen that their shields were malfunctioning and adjusted the re-materialization algorithm accordingly. The Ensign hadn't even noticed.

And Bashir had stood by and done nothing. Doctors didn't fix transporter algorithms.

He sighed wishing there was anything to do, not that he wanted people – more people – to get injured, but something, anything to distract him from the crushing guilt he was feeling.

The overall gain was still worth it, three lives against the thousands he'd save if he stayed a doctor. There really was no way he would have been able to explain away how he even knew what was wrong, never mind how to fix it.

So he'd watched and figured the odds and let them die.

Bashir stared at the half-moon shaped welts in the palm of his hands where his fingernails had broken the skin.

Was this ever going to get easier?

-::-

Bashir was sitting alone at their usual table in the replimat and poked at his lunch. He made a face. The replicators were off by 2.7% again.

Pushing his plate away he sighed and leaned back, crossing his ankles. At least it wasn't emergency rations. What O'Brien saw in them was beyond him. He really should dig up the formula for that nutritional bar he'd created. Sisko's reaction to the emergency rations implied an 83% chance that he'd be in favor of replacing their emergency rations with it.

Bashir looked around the replimat, searching for familiar faces but coming up blank. The station's population was not yet back to its normal levels – barely 46% had returned and the replimat was eerily empty.

Even with 18.7 minutes of his lunch break left but Dax on duty on ops and Garak still gone there really was no reason not to go back to the infirmary early. Bashir sighed. He should have brought the book Garak'd lent him. But since he hadn't he might just as well be bored there doing something useful like finishing up inventory.

A Bajoran man sneezed and Bashir perked up. The residents that had returned had also brought with them many new and interesting communicable diseases and were now busy spreading them among the returning population. Hopefully, at least one of them would mutate into an interesting strain.

Bashir pushed his plate away, sighed and got up. Even the most interesting strain of flu would need a couple of days to mutate, and it wasn't that he didn't have plenty of things to do. On top of the mess The Circle had made of his infirmary, he had yet to finish his report on the whole Dax-Verad incident.

As he walked back to the infirmary his enhanced hearing picked up the lead of a cheerful melody. The tune filled the corridor – at 23,000 Hertz inaudible to normal human or Bajoran ears – but Bashir's face split into a grin and he sped up.

There was only one person on this station that would play Cardassian music.

Garak was back.

-::-

The door swished open and loud music spilled into the corridor. Bashir stopped in his track at the pandemonium, and his eyes went wide with shock. He'd known that The Circle had ransacked a lot of the station, they were still not quite done putting the infirmary back to order, but what had been done to Garak's shop was worse. Way worse.

He bit his lip, taking in the destroyed merchandise and the graffiti on the walls. The Circle really had done a great job wrecking the place.

It took him a second to spot his friend among the wreckage. Garak was standing in the back of the store, posture unfazed, almost relaxed, as if the destruction of his work, his shop only touched him peripherally. His hand was wrapped around what reeked –even from this distance – like a glass of mulled kanar.

Bashir frowned then shrugged. This was not the way he'd deal with this but –

"Computer: end music."

Garak put his glass down on the workstation behind him, smiling at Bashir from across the room.

He couldn't have been back long, Bashir thought, a still packed duffle bag was on the floor next to Garak.

"Garak!"

Bashir beamed at him from the door, making is way over to his friend, picking his way through the wreckage in quick strides.

"Doctor, what a pleasant surprise." Garak gestured at the broken furniture. "I'd offer you a seat, but I seem to be out of chairs."

"It's so good to have you back!"

Bashir grabbed his friend by his upper arms and pulled him into a hug.

"It's good to be back."

Garak's arms briefly squeezed his waist before letting go.

"I'm sorry about your shop."

Bashir reached over to straighten a display mannequin, not that it made a dent in the overall mess.

"It was to be expected."

Garak shrugged and then smiled and reached for his duffel bag, rummaging in it for a bit.

"For you, my dear."

He pulled out a brightly wrapped box and proffered it to Bashir.

"You got me a present?"

Bashir took the box, genuinely moved by the gesture.

"I saw it and thought of you."

Garak looked in anticipation at Bashir and then at the box.

Bashir ran his finger under the brightly colored paper where the opening of the box was hidden underneath and flipped it open.

"You got me a snow globe?" Bashir shook it, watching the sparkly little flakes settled back onto 'Greetings from the Hanolan Colony'. "Thank you."

Snow globe in hand he hugged his friend again.

"I'm glad you like it, my dear," Garak whispered against Bashir's neck and Bashir turned to press an affectionate kiss onto Garak's cheek.

"I do." He smiled. "And thank you for thinking of me."

"My dear, how could I not."

Garak's eyes sparkled with good humor.

Bashir wasn't quite sure what exactly about it had reminded Garak of him – the letters were the same blue as his uniform, was that it? – but it was the thought that counted and that Garak had cared enough to get him a gift made him feel happier than he had been in days.

"Will I see you for lunch tomorrow?" Garak inquired.

"I'm really sorry, Garak, but I don't think I have time for lunch tomorrow."

Bashir ran his hand through his hair, feeling like a heel for having to disappoint Garak. Sisko had scheduled a meeting right after his lunch break and he needed his actual lunch time to finish writing his report on the Verad-Dax incident. That's what he got for procrastinating

"That's quite alright, my dear."

Garak turned away and crouched down to pick up a torn shirt. He folded it carefully and placed it on the workstation.

"I will see you next week then?" Garak asked with fake nonchalance that made Bashir cringe.

He did miss spending time with his friend and not seeing Garak for another week, so shortly after he was finally back on the station, seemed really, really long. Too long.

Then an idea struck him. He'd originally planned on playing the Odyssey holo-novel Felix had recommended to him nearly a month ago. In all the chaos with The Circle, the siege and then the evacuation because of that plasma-storm, he had not yet gotten around to even starting it, but spending time with Garak seemed like a much better use of his holosuite allotment.

It wasn't as if people were lining up to spend their free time with him, either.

"Garak? What about the day after tomorrow?" Bashir reached out and put a gentle hand on the Cardassian's shoulder and when Garak turned around Bashir flashed him a lopsided, apologetic grin. "I have a holosuite booked for the afternoon. Would you care to join me?"

"For one of your holo-novel adventures?" Garak raised an eyeridge at him, his tone skeptical.

"I still owe you a trip to Earth, remember?" Bashir suggested, hoping that idea would find Garak's approval.

"How could I forget?" Garak's smile was bright and genuine this time. "It would be my pleasure, my dear."

"Great." Bashir cradled the snow globe against his chest and returned Garak's smile. "I'll see you at sixteen-hundred hours?"

So, Earth it was. Mentally going through his collection he tried to settle on a location. He could show Garak his home, but unless he tweaked the program he was sure Garak would not find London's charming weather to his liking. San Francisco then perhaps, the Academy had beautiful gardens.

Bashir shook his snow globe again. Now the only thing left to do was to talk to Odo about Quark's illegal surveillance to ensure they could _properly_ enjoy the program – Bashir grinned. He knew just the program they both would enjoy.

-::-

"Chief," Bashir ran his medical scanner over Chief O'Brien's injured arm and frowned at the scanner readings. They confirmed what he had already been suspecting: splintered fracture of the humerus, most likely caused by a fall from significant height.

"I should not have to tell you that relaxing the holosuite safeties is not recommended."

"But you can't have a proper battle scene with full safeties." O'Brien huffed. "It's no fun, sir."

"I would not call seventeen splinters, one of them missing a major blood vessel by 1.7 millimeters, fun."

Bashir shook his head, turning his attention back to the medical scanner. The bigger bone fragments could be pushed back into place, but the smaller ones would have to be dissolved and the damaged bone re-grown. Fairly simple, if time consuming.

Bashir pressed a hypo-spray to O'Brien's upper arm, administering a localized painkiller.

O'Brien relaxed and his eyes went slightly droopy as the anesthetic kicked in. His head sacked back against the headrest and he let out a sigh of relief.

Bashir sympathized, a splintered fracture like this was pretty painful, even if O'Brien had no one to blame but himself.

"Mr. O'Brien?" Bashir put his hand lightly on Chief O'Brien's uninjured shoulder and when he had his attention continued,

"Chief, I will have to remove that sleeve. I know this is not going to be pleasant, but I need you to hold still."

"Yes, sir."

O'Brien nodded and set his jaw in anticipation of the pain.

Bashir took hold of the blue uniform sleeve, running his laser cutter from the cuff up to the shoulder, past the Admiral's gold tassels and all the way to the lapel, making it fall open and away from O'Brien's shoulder.

He helped O'Brien shrug out of the jacket, placing it on examination table next to him.

"That's a really nice costume. I'm sorry I had to ruin it, Chief." He nodded toward the uniform jacket. "If you take it to Garak, I am sure he can repair it for you."

"No need, sir." O'Brien paused for a moment, his jaw working and he looked like he wanted to say something but then just shrugged awkwardly with his uninjured shoulder.

"It's replicated."

The Chief's expression was oddly guarded as if he expected a negative reaction.

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed that it wasn't tailored." Bashir inquired, wondering if the Chief had run a holo-novel he was familiar with. "That's a 19th Century British Royal Navy uniform, if I'm not mistaken. Napoleonic wars?"

"Yes, sir. I wrote the code for the uniform myself," O'Brien replied, giving Bashir a guarded look.

"That's impressive work." Bashir whistled low under his breath, he wouldn't mind a uniform like that himself. Another splinter was pushed into place and fused back to the bone. "Was it by any chance The Battle of the Nile?"

"Yes, sir." O'Brien looked baffled for a moment. "How'd you guess? It's one of Felix's. Not sure you would have heard about him, but he's kinda famous in the coder community. His holo-novels are amazingly detailed."

"Battle of the Nile is one of his best."

Bashir nodded and adjusted the settings on the hypo-spray, running his scanner over O'Brien's arm to locate and target another one of the splinters.

"I played it back when I was at the Academy. I particularly liked –"

"I don't think we're talking about the same game, sir." O'Brien interjected, giving him a skeptical look. "It's really new. You couldn't have played it back at the Academy, I only got a copy myself last week."

"Oh, I'm friends with Felix." Bashir pressed the hypo-spray against O'Brien's arm, fusing the last of the big splinters. "He lets me beta-test his games before he releases them. I don't mean to brag, but you can thank me for the 'Egyptian Princess' mini-game at the end. In fact there's going to be a sequel –"

"Of course you are, sir."

O'Brien rolled his eyes and Bashir's hand stilled for a split second, the derisive disbelief hitting his enthusiasm like a bucket of cold water.

Bashir pressed his lips together, trying not to let the Chief's remark get to him. He didn't spin tall tales to impress people. He wasn't his father.

-::-

"My dear Doctor, what ever gave you the impression that I enjoy snow?" Garak had stopped a few steps from the holosuite door, the anticipation on his face changing to horror.

He stared in disbelief at the gloomy, snow-covered landscape and Bashir had to suppress a snicker at the reaction. After the wild goose chase Garak had sent him on when they'd first met, winding him up a bit seemed only fair. Especially since Bashir was 99% certain that the program he'd picked would in fact please his friend.

"Are you sure, my dear, that Earth is a class M planet?"

"Yes of course."

Bashir stood on the wooden path in the small circle of light the open door cast into the room. Lanterns illuminated the path further away, their light dim even in the darkness of the arctic winter.

"Then why is everything covered in snow and ice?"

Garak raised an eyeridge at him, stepping closer but not entering the holosuite.

_Because your wide-eyed exasperation is utterly adorable._

"Oh, we're at the edge of the Arctic Circle," Bashir deadpanned and had to bite the inside of his cheek not to grin. "The climate is much more temperate toward the equator."

"Then let's go _there_ , shall we?" Garak flashed him a bright, encouraging smile. "Computer–"

"Don't you trust me?" Bashir cut him off, putting on his most wounded, innocent expression.

Garak gave him a long, measured look but when Bashir held out his hand Garak reluctantly took it and stepped into the holosuite.

"With protest and against my better judgement."

Garak huffed, his fingers twining with Bashir's, the gesture belying his words.

The door closed soundlessly behind him, leaving them in semi-darkness.

"Worried I'll push you into the bay and marry the Legate?" Bashir teased, avidly aware of Garak's hand on his, the sensual slide of fine, sleek scales against flesh making his breath hitch.

"I didn't know you were such a romantic soul, Doctor."

Garak rubbed his thumb over the back of Bashir's hand, making him shiver in response.

"I wouldn't mind a bit of romance." Bashir let the fingers of his free hand trail teasingly down Garak's neckridge. He hooked his index finger under the thick, thermal collar, pulling Garak closer, his voice low, full of promise, "And to get you out of those clothes."

"To hasten my death via exposure?" Garak groused, but did not move away, a blue tinge creeping up on his neckridges.

"I really don't know what you are complaining about?" Bashir rolled his eyes at Garak. "I've not even activated the climate controls yet."

"And just how cold does it get here?" Garak swallowed visibly at the hot breath ghosting over his now rapidly darkening scales.

"Actually," Bashir pulled away a tiny bit, waiting for Garak to make the next move. "Even though we're near the Arctic Circle the Gulf Stream keeps the climate temperate."

"You call this temperate?" Garak shuddered and Bashir gave him another innocent smile.

"The temperature does not drop much below zero."

"Kelvin?" Garak reached out to touch Bashir's shoulder, his hands sliding down to Bashir's uniform collar, smoothing it down.

"No, Celsius."

Bashir mock-glared at him, batting Garak's hands away. He liked his collar that way, thank you very much. And then with a mischievous glint in his eye addressed the computer.

"Computer: activate program Grindavik*."

The program activated and the ambient temperature dropped to 17C, enough to make the small hairs at the back of his neck stand up, but not as far as the nearby snow-covered landscape would have one believe.

Garak wrapped his arms theatrically around himself and stepped closer to Bashir, his lips pressed together in silent disapproval.

Then the wind picked up and carried with it the sulphuric rotten-egg smell that announced the close presence of thermal hotsprings.

Garak turned his head into the breeze, pink tongue flicking out between his lips, testing the air.

"My dear Doctor, if that is what I think it is..." Garak's eyes lit up at the odour and he put a hand at the small of Bashir's back, urging him to start walking. "All is forgiven!"

They walked up the sloping wooden planked path and the air grew exponentially warmer and more humid with each step and when they turned the corner they stopped for a moment, taking in the stunning sight in front of them.

The path turned into a pier that led to a wooden deck in the middle of a shallow lake. Great clouds of steam rose from the milky blue water in the lagoon, wafting in the breeze.

"Do humans enjoy thermal hot springs?" Garak asked, clearly perplexed by the mere idea.

"Yes, we do. It's very relaxing." Bashir smiled, aware that Garak's arm around him was as much affection as for warmth.

"Just because we're mammals does not mean we don't enjoy warmth."

"Your species could have fooled me." Garak shuddered and his arm tightened around Bashir's waist. "I'm most grateful."

"But by all means, my dear, let's get going." Garak gently urged him to start moving again. "Thank you."

"Want to show me exactly how _grateful_?"

Bashir leered and reached up to his ear intending to turn off his universal translator, but Garak caught his hand before he could do so.

"That would not be wise, Doctor."

"If you're worried about Quark, I had a chat with Odo about that." Bashir ran his thumb teasingly over the back of Garak's hand. "He said he'd take care of it."

"And you think our good Constable would not be the least bit curious as to why you are so protective of your privacy, my dear?" Garak gave him a pointed look.

Oh. Damn it.

Bashir frowned. There went his plans for the hot tub.

"That's just great."

Bashir pouted, remembering all too well Odo's overreaction to him giving Garak a datarod. While the mental image of what their over-eager Chief of Security would do if he caught them making out in a holosuite hot-tub was funny, the reality would be much less so.

He then leaned closer, voice pitched low, only for Garak to hear, "I do like the way your voice sounds when you speak Cardassian."

Garak swallowed visibly, his neckridges darkening. "Perhaps later?"

Bashir grinned. "Don't think I won't take you up on that offer."

-::-

Bashir tugged the towel around his waist, more out of habit than a need for modesty.

The wooden pier was pleasantly warm under his feet and Bashir stopped for a moment to enjoy the view.

Great plumes of steam rose from the milky blue water and disappeared into the night sky. The scattered lanterns providing the only light in the arctic winter hung from the bridges and walkways surrounding the lagoon. Their dim shine illuminated the steam, throwing it into stark contrast against the dark volcanic rock forming the surrounding landscape by the lanterns that hung from the bridges and walkways.

Garak was a couple of steps ahead of him, obviously eager to get into the hot spring.

Bashir admired the raised pattern of scales that ran down Garak's spine as he followed his friend down the pier that led to the water. He longed to run his fingers down the thick line of scales, wondering what kind of response he'd get from Garak. The universe really was amazing.

The breeze picked up the steam and it wafted in big white clouds towards them, momentarily obscuring Garak and the end of the pier from view.

When he reached the ladder Garak had already made his way over to where two deck chairs had been placed in the water on either side of an outcropping. The volcanic stone had been carved into a rudimentary table, the tabletop rising a few inches above water level.

Garak submerged himself to the nose in the 38C hot water, eyes closed in bliss, his usually neat hair fanning out around him.

Bashir slowly stepped down into the momentarily too hot water and sighed in pleasure, the heat really did feel good.

The water came to his chest and he waded over to other side of the table and grabbed one of the towels the program conveniently provided. He rolled it up and just like Garak had done, wedged it between the rough, sediment stained pumice and his neck.

Bashir leaned back and watched Garak through lowered lashes. Garak lay, legs stretched out in front of him, with his eyes closed, his head resting against a similarly folded towel. He'd never seen Garak this relaxed. He was usually so intense, so coiled up, ready to strike at any second, that the peaceful expression that had settled on Garak's face made Bashir smile. It made him glad that he'd chosen this particular holo-program.

"Computer: set up Kotra board, Cardassian standard."

Garak's eyes opened reluctantly. He raised his head just enough above the water to be able to speak, his face dark against the lantern suspended above them.

"Did you enjoy getting slaughtered that much?"

"Thoroughly!" Bashir grinned. It was, after all, nothing but the truth.

The aurora danced across the clear winter sky in brilliant bands of green and pink, reflected in the milky white of the lagoon's water.

-::-

"Thank you, Doctor." Garak gave him a formal little bow when the holosuite door closed behind them.

The sincerity in Garak's voice made Bashir's stomach flutter and he would have gladly given a month's worth of his holo-allotment to see that look of genuine pleasure on his friend's face again.

"You are most welcome." He squeezed Garak's hand gently, letting go before potentially causing a scene.

"Gentlemen." Odo passed them by with a nod and Bashir scoffed 'seriously?' under his breath. The man really did not do subtle, did he?

"Well, my dear, that is my cue to leave." Garak gave him a warm smile. "Will I see you for lunch next week?"

"Yes, of course." Bashir returned the smile with a small, friendly nod but felt a pang of disappointment that he wouldn't see Garak for a whole week.

Staring at the Cardassian's retreating back he made a decision, suddenly not in the mood for a date with the pretty, new Dabo girl at all.

"Garak, wait!" Bashir jogged after his friend. "Would you care for dinner?"

-::-

The last couple of days had been exhilarating. Garak waking him in the middle of the night for a clandestine trip to Bajor, their visit to the orphanage, them working together to solve the mystery of Rugal's adoption, and then last but not least the look on Dukat's face when his plot had been thwarted.

The small approving nod Garak had given him after the interrogation was the cherry on the cake.

Having gotten in the last word with Dukat, of all people, was immensely satisfying on its own, but Garak's approval meant a lot to him.

Bashir didn't even try to hide the smugness he felt right now.

He watched Dukat flounce out of the room, stopping only to glare daggers at Garak and hiss something too low even for his ears to hear.

Bashir's smile slid into a frown. Their interaction was strangely familiar, as if they not only knew each other, but knew each other well.

How was a 'plain and simple tailor' important enough to be recognized by the Gul that had led the Occupation?

People were filing out of the conference room, and Bashir watched them go deep in thought.

Who was Garak? And what was his part in all of this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The hot springs Bashir and Garak go to is a real place in Iceland also known as "Blue Lagoon".
> 
> http://www.designswan.com/archives/7-most-amazing-hot-spring-in-the-world.html


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big Thank You to tinsnip for the stellar beta :D  
> .  
> .
> 
> *The dialog between Miles and Keiko is taken directly from the end of the episode "Armageddon Game".
> 
> You can find the transcript here: http://www.chakoteya.net/DS9/433.htm

-::-

Bashir sat at their usual table in the replimat and watched as Garak, amiably chatting with a customer, disappeared into the crowd.

_Just notice the details._

Garak's parting words stayed with him and Bashir frowned at his drink.

That was just it, he did notice the details. His eidetic memory made him very, very good at noticing details. He wished it didn't.

At first the Cardassian's evasiveness had been charming and Bashir had let the rumor that Garak was 'Cardassia's eyes and ears,' combined with Garak's charisma, lull him into believing that was all he was: a minor government employee left behind to write reports. But –

But Garak knew Dukat, and what was worse, Dukat knew him, personally knew him.

It destroyed any delusions Bashir might still have harbored about Garak being – well about him _not_ being someone important enough to be recognized by the Gul who led the Occupation.

Bashir pushed his raktajino away, nauseated.

Maybe it was time to examine those details more closely indeed. 

-::-

"Computer: start Federation Grand Slam, finale. Setting: realistic."

A tennis court materialized around him and Bashir blinked at the sudden transition from dark holo-suite to mid-morning sunny day. He felt an unpleasant déjà-vu wash over him. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the unwanted memories. He'd enough to think about without dwelling on what could have been.

"Back for a rematch, Julian?" The current Federation champion, Pham Mai Chau, waved at him from across the court and Bashir gave her a curt nod.

"Let's start."

He dribbled his ball on the grass, then tossed it high into the air, and served. Hard.

He really didn't like the conclusion he'd come to about Garak.

Pham returned the ball with an easy backhand and Bashir sprinted after it, chopping it across the net sloppily and cursing under his breath.

He'd had hoped that, against all probability, Garak might distract him with a better, more plausible lie than the ugly truth that was staring him in the face.

Pham parried easily. This was, after all, one of the exercise programs Felix had specifically tweaked just for him, and it was strikingly realistic.

Bashir hit the ball with angry force.

"Out! Advantage Pham," the program announced and Bashir scowled. Perhaps too realistic.

"Computer: mute program."Not in the mood for the social part of the program, Bashir took his position behind the line.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, dribbling lightly on his feet, waiting for Pham to serve.

There was an 85% chance that Garak had not previously known about Dukat's scheme to discredit Minister Pa'Dar. Yet he'd callously, without even batting an eyelash, used Bashir to humiliate Dukat when given the opportunity. That he had gone along so stupidly, so naively…

Bashir barely managed to return Pham's forehand follow-up. The sun shone bright in the sky, making him squint and grind his teeth in annoyance.

"Computer: change weather to overcast."

The brilliantly blue sky turned a muted grey, which suited Bashir's mood just fine.

Garak had used him, used their friendship, without hesitating a second. That was the part that really hit home.

Pham returned his serve easily with a volley, but to Bashir's satisfaction hit the net on the third return.

Sadly that was when it stopped. Whatever glitch had the program go easy on him seemed to be over. Pham made him work hard for each point, chasing him across the field with the ease of the Federation Champion she represented.

His returns got sloppier and sloppier and he was as annoyed at that as he was annoyed at himself for how naively he had played along with Garak's scheme, high on the thrill of espionage and solving the riddle of Rugal's adoption.

Bashir cursed and barely managed to return a soft serve, but with more luck than skill hit it wide and actually managed to score a point.

And what about Pa'Dar?

He swung again and missed, cursing his lack of focus under his breath.

Just because Pa'Dar and Dukat were political adversaries did not necessarily mean he was a good person – or even just the better person.

Bashir won the next point with a ferocious volley, giving him the game.

How could he have let Garak snow him so completely?

The program seemed to decide that this was the time to up the difficulty. Pham wrapped the next two points up quickly, putting the pressure back on Bashir. He skidded across the court, irritated at his lack of leverage on the slick grass.

"Computer: change surface coating to acrylic."

In his meager defense, Garak was charming and genial, but so was Dukat. The comparison made Bashir shudder.

Pham had him chasing all over the court now, and when he lunged but missed the seventh return, she moved in for a 30-0 kill.

This had to be one of the worst games he'd ever played and if anyone was to blame it was Garak. Damn him.

"Computer: change –"

Bashir threw his racquet onto the floor in frustration and anger – at himself, at Garak, at everything.

He definitely had developed feelings for Garak that went beyond friendship, and between all the half-truths, omissions and lies, only one thing was certain: he was in too deep. Way too deep.

"Computer: end program."

Bashir shook his head, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the dark holo-suite floor. He felt miserable and alone.

-::-

Bashir entered his quarters, towel slung over his shoulder. He was still wound up, mind reeling, even though he was physically exhausted. Hopefully a nice, long sonic shower would take the edge off.

He stripped and tossed his sweaty exercise clothes into the recycler.

"Computer: one standard uniform, one set underclothes. Authorization: Bashir Delta Zero Nine."

Bashir took his fresh uniform out of the replicator, intending to put it on his bed, yet when he was halfway across the room his eyes fell on the side table by his sofa and he stopped mid-stride.

The snow globe. The snow globe Garak had given him. It sat there, all glittery and innocent-looking, within prime view of his console.

No –

It had seemed like such a random gift at the time, but what if it hadn't been random at all?

What if it contained some kind of surveillance device?

The thought chilled him and he frantically recalled what security codes he had used in his quarters since Garak had given it to him.

Bashir tossed his uniform onto the sofa and sat down hard, dread settling in his stomach. How could he have compromised himself this badly?

He picked up the snow globe and turned it this way and that. It looked like an ordinary snow globe, but that meant nothing.

He held it to his ear, listening for the distinctive whirr of an electronic device, but even his enhanced hearing could not make out a sound.

Maybe it was just a snow globe – part of him clung to that hope – and yet planting a surveillance device in an innocent-looking gift was exactly what one of his holo-villains would do.

Bashir put the snow globe back down on the side table, suddenly aware that he was only in his underwear, then shrugged. His modesty was the least of his problems, and it wasn't as if Garak hadn't seen him naked before. They had been to the hot springs together after all and –

He shuddered. That was something he didn't want to think about right now. He didn't, wouldn't regret what they'd done together, but the thought that it could have been part of a carefully planned seduction hurt more than he'd expected.

Bashir sighed, grabbed his uniform and headed toward his bath.

There was nothing he could do about it now, but once he'd had his shower and gotten properly dressed, Bashir decided, he'd take that snow globe to O'Brien and have him scan it. He needed to know the truth.

-::-

"Ah good, you're finally repairing the replicators." Bashir addressed O'Brien's feet sticking out from the maintenance conduit. "Is it the re-materialization algorithm again?"

"What can I do for you, _Doctor_?" O'Brien paused for a moment and Bashir could hear a suppressed huff. "Is anything malfunctioning in the infirmary?" O'Brien laboriously pulled himself out from under the replicator he was working on.

Bashir made a mental note to schedule O'Brien for his annual physical. The man really was not in great shape.

"No, everything's fine there." Bashir proffered the snow globe. "Do you have a moment?"

"Sir?" O'Brien looked from the snow globe to Bashir and back with thinly veiled exasperation.

"I can wait if you're busy," Bashir offered, not wanting to intrude.

"No," O'Brien answered a bit too quickly; then exhaled slowly. "No, it's fine. What do you need me to do, sir?"

"Could you scan this for surveillance devices?" Bashir fidgeted. "I'd do it myself, but medical scanners are just not equipped for it."

"Surveillance devices?" O'Brien got up from the floor and brushed the dust off his uniform. "Is this some kind of joke – sir?"

"No, not at all." Bashir avoided O'Brien's eyes; he'd hoped he'd get around explaining the details. "You see, Garak gave it to me as a gift."

"The Cardassian gave you a gift?" O'Brien's eyebrows rose in disbelief.

"Yes," Bashir bit out, not liking the Chief's tone at all. He was about to defend Garak, saying they were friends, but –

"I can dispose of it for you, sir." O'Brien held out his hand. "Why take the risk?"

"Just scan it, please." Bashir suppressed a frown. He couldn't do that. It just didn't feel right to destroy Garak's gift until he was certain.

O'Brien rolled his eyes at Bashir but did as asked and ran his scanner over the snow globe.

Bashir tried to peek over O'Brien's shoulder as he worked, wanting to get a better look at the readings.

"Do you mind, sir?" O'Brien glared at him and shifted away from Bashir.

"Uhm, uh, yes, sure." Bashir stuttered out his apology and took a step back.

Bashir forced himself to keep breathing normally as the scanner worked and O'Brien hemmed and hawed at the data.

After thirty-five excruciating seconds O'Brien snapped his scanner shut.

"And?" Bashir rocked impatiently back on his heels.

"Nothing wrong with it, sir." O'Brien gestured toward the recycler. "But are you certain you don't want me to dispose of it?"

"What? Yes!" Bashir made a grab for the snow globe, relief washing over him. "Why would I do that? It was a present!"

"Right you are, sir." O'Brien gave him a long look before he turned back to the conduit he'd been working on. "If there is anything else?"

"No, thank you." Giddy with relief that there had been no security breach and that Garak had actually gotten him a real gift, Bashir cradled his snow globe close. While it didn't even come close to making up for how Garak had used him to humiliate Dukat – no matter how much Dukat deserved it – and how Bashir still had no idea what Garak's role in the course of events was, it was – something.

-::-

"I see you've started without me." Dax grinned and nodded towards his nearly empty synthale. She put a tumbler with 15cl of something suspiciously clear in it down on the table and pushed it toward Bashir.

"Thanks." Bashir tried not to sigh too theatrically. If he had to talk to anyone about Melora, Dax would be a good idea. At the very least Dax would offer a non-judgmental sympathetic ear.

And it wasn't as if he could talk to Garak about the whole mess. Talking to the person he was trying to get over about getting dumped by the rebound; awkward didn't even come close.

"You look like you could use another one, or three." Jadzia raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"Or four…" Bashir agreed, but eyed the drink suspiciously. "What is it?"

It didn't look as lethal as a Ferengi Black Hole, but with Dax you never knew.

"Samarian Sunrise." She flicked her finger against the glass and the liquid changed into brilliant swirls of orange, red and green.

"Pretty," he muttered and gave her a long look, trying to read her expression.

"It is, isn't it? Kon introduced me to it." She raised her glass, admiring the colorful chemical reaction as it settled and the drink turned a pale orange.

"How's he?" Bashir asked, not actually caring but feeling that he should at least make an effort. He hadn't seen the Ferengi freighter captain around lately.

"Great. He's on a cargo run to Ferenginar." Jadzia tilted her head at him. "What got you so blue? Melora?"

"I ballsed that up pretty bad, didn't I?" He groaned and slid backward on his chair. And that was not even half of it. Bashir rested his head on his forearm and carted his fingers through his hair. "I made a complete arse out of myself."

"Yep, you did." Dax patted him on the shoulder. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

"What do I do now?" Bashir looked up at her with big, tired eyes.

"Let it go, Julian." Dax fixed him with a knowing, centuries-wise smile. "Not all relationships are meant to last, and you can't fix everyone you meet."

"That obvious?" Bashir sucked the air in through his teeth, irritated at himself. He'd only wanted to help her – but once again he'd ploughed ahead, assuming the other person was on the same page as him, only to end up looking like a complete idiot.

"Yep." Dax took his unresisting hand and pressed the drink she'd gotten him into it, her long cool fingers curling around his, reminding him painfully of another relationship – friendship – whatever it was that ...

"Stop ruining the good times you had together by dwelling on what could have been."

"You're right. I know –" Bashir sighed again and took a sip of his drink. Despite the orange color it didn't taste like citrus at all; the flavor was more subtle, reminding him vaguely of caramel. He was aware that he was coming across as bit melodramatic about Melora leaving; after all, they'd barely had two weeks together, but there was no way for him to tell even Dax what this was really about.

"Come on, cheer up, Julian. Besides I know something you don't!" Jadzia nudged him and jerked her head toward the bar where Quark was listlessly polishing glasses.

"Why Quark's moping about?" Bashir asked, making an effort. He'd been wondering about that himself. Quark hadn't even bothered to come over to up-sell him.

"Yep." Dax leaned back in her chair, grinning smugly. She swirled her drink in her glass. "I take it you have not heard then?"

"Heard what?" Bashir leaned closer, interested. Leave it to Jadzia to know all the juiciest gossip. "Last thing I heard Quark went to the Gamma Quadrant on some kind of business trip. Did he lose profit?"

"Yes. But believe it or not, this isn't about latinum." Dax grinned. "Remember Pel, the Ferengi waiter who went with him?"

"Yes, the one who introduced those infernal Gramilian peas to the bar? He seemed to have quite a crush on Quark – that one, right?"

"That's the one." Jadzia took a sip of her drink.

"Oh, come on Dax, spill the beans already!" Bashir mock-glared at her. "Are they finally dating?"

"Were." Dax tapped the side of her nose. "And Pel's not so much a 'he' as…"

"Are you serious?" Bashir leaned back in his seat and crossed his ankles, eyes wandering over to where Quark was tending bar. "I thought Ferengi women weren't allowed to…"

"Exactly!" Jadzia shook her head. "Can you believe it? Zek threatened both of them with prison."

"That's ridiculous." Bashir picked up his tumbler and frowned at the contents. As much as he tried to keep an open mind, the Ferengi attitude toward women was something he did not understand, even within the confines of Ferengi logic. How was keeping half your population from making profit good for profit?

"Is that why he's been polishing the exact same glass for nearly ten minutes?"

"Yes." Jadzia gave him a knowing look. "Pel left. She wanted him to go with her but –"

"He'd have to give up everything." Bashir felt a pang of sympathy for Quark. Feeling affection for someone you'd have to give up your career and friends for –

"Poor guy," Bashir sighed. He didn't even have a relationship to loose. "Looks like he's regretting that decision."

"Oh no, you don't!" Dax took one look at Bashir's face and gestured at one of the waiters for a second round. "Change of topic. You are done feeling blue."

"Yes, sir." Bashir saluted her with his glass.

"So, have you heard? The Provisional Government has finally appointed a replacement for Krim," Jadzia prompted.

"Took them long enough." Bashir nodded at the news. "Who is it?"

"General Kendra Julis."

"Now that name sounds familiar…" Bashir pretended to think for a few seconds, tapping the rim of his tumbler with his index finger. "Oh, right, I read about her in Li Nalas' biography. The author mentions that she favors diplomatic solutions over flat-out conflict."

"From what Kira says, Kendra's a bit too diplomatic for her liking." Dax downed the rest of her drink, giving no clue if she agreed or disagreed with Kira's assessment.

"You make that sound like it's a bad thing." Bashir snorted. "The last thing Bajor needs is to get dragged into another conflict."

The waiter came with their drinks and their conversation lapsed into silence as they both admired the colorful swirls the Samarian Sunset produced.

"So…" Jadzia gave him a patently fake innocent smile. "There's this new lab assistant, Ensign T'Hath."

"What about her?" Bashir asked, fairly certain where this was going.

"She's your type."

"And what is my type?" Bashir challenged teasingly.

"Pretty," Dax deadpanned and then wiggled her eyebrows at him. "And very interested in medical final exam stories, if you know what I mean…"

Bashir groaned. It wasn't as if he could exactly disagree with her assessment.

"Thanks, but I don't think –" He ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he was making a similar mistake as Quark when it came to Garak. It wasn't quite the same, but close enough to make him uncomfortable.

"It's a bit soon, Jadzia. I – I need some time to sort through this mess."

-::-

"Doctor!" Garak hovered in front of Bashir's table, steaming mug in hand. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"Uhm." Bashir's heart missed a beat when he looked up from the PADD he'd been reading, and met Garak's eyes. He licked his suddenly dry lips.

"Not at all."

Garak sat down across from him. He returned Garak's smile before he remembered what had caused him to avoid his plain and simple friend to begin with.

He'd not seen Garak in one long, miserable, lonely week. He'd thought that if he avoided Garak it would pull everything back into focus, would let him assess the whole mess more objectively. It hadn't worked. He was no closer to figuring out where he stood with the Cardassian. He'd missed their discussions and – if he was honest – Garak himself. The only insight he had gained was that he really, really didn't like eating lunch alone.

"Rokassa juice?" Bashir wrinkled his nose at the stench coming from Garak's mug.

"Why yes, it soothes my nerves–" Garak took a sip of the steaming juice and sighed with pleasure.

"Rough day?" Bashir enquired for something to say.

"You could indeed say that, my dear." Garak reached out to pat the back of his hand but Bashir pulled it back, out of range. He didn't trust himself to not respond to Garak's touch. "But what about you, Doctor? You seem to be frightfully busy these days."

"Everyone seems to be coming down with something, and with the annual physicals –" Bashir lied, not wanting to admit that he'd been avoiding lunch at the replimat –and more specifically Garak – on purpose. "But it's good to see you again." Bashir smiled. "I missed our discussions."

That, at least, wasn't a lie.

"What are you reading, my dear?" Garak nodded toward the PADD. "Have you by chance finished the book I gave you?"

"I'm sorry; I haven't even had the time to start it." Bashir pushed his PADD over for Garak to see. "Still the anthology you gave me, I'm afraid."

"Tella Evek?" Garak made a face. "Please tell me you are not actually enjoying her work."

"Why not? I found her poems charmingly subversive."

"But my dear, how can you find one-dimensional insipid tripe subversive?" Garak shook his head in mock sadness.

"I'm afraid I'm missing something here." Bashir blinked at Garak, genuinely confused. "I quite liked her recurring theme of memento mori. Is that not something Cardassians appreciate?"

"Memento mori? Evek?" Garak laughed and tilted his head at him. "Surely not. Oh, the transient nature of all that is, that all must in time perish but the state, is quite a popular theme. But you are mistaken about Evek. Would you mind showing me?"

Garak turned the PADD 180 degrees and Bashir flipped through the pages until he found the poem he'd been thinking of.

No matter how often he looked at them, the rotating way Cardassian poetry was written still intrigued him. So many layers and meanings packed into a visually stunning form.

"Ah, here." Bashir tapped his index finger onto the screen. "This is the one I meant, you have to read it in third position: _The hills are covered with flowers in bloom, blue petals bleeding into the sky_ –" Bashir turned the PADD to fourth position and continued to read the next line. " _I pick one and tiny black ants crawl up my fingers; rejoice for spring is here._ "

"Yes?" Garak gave him a genuinely puzzled look. "What about it?"

"The beauty of spring in contrast to the ants." Bashir pointed out. Was Garak teasing him? Flirting with him? The reference was quite obvious.

"I still don't understand, my dear. What about the ants?" Garak cradled his mug with both hands, forearms resting on the table.

"Aren't they meant to symbolize decay, death?" Bashir inquired, wondering where Garak was trying to lead him. He didn't tend to just ask question without an ulterior motive.

"Is that what they do on Earth?" Garak took a sip of his juice, looking at Bashir over the rim.

"Yes."

"How quaint." Garak's knee briefly bumped against Bashir's and Bashir felt a shiver run down his spine. The contact was as fleeting as it was intense. "No, my dear, sadly that is a human misinterpretation. On Cardassia ants are considered a symbol of life, of spring. You see, they are our main pollinators."

Garak gave him an infuriatingly patronizing smile that made Bashir's heart beat faster. "They feature quite heavily in _folk art_." Bashir suppressed a snicker at just how much distain Garak managed to put into those two words. "Without them there would be no harvest."

"Oh." Bashir pursed his lips, embarrassed that he'd fallen into the trap of assumption based on cultural background.

"Sadly, you were giving Evek too much credit, my dear." Garak fixed him with one of his most charming, enigmatic smiles and Bashir found himself unable to look away, feeling more than a bit like the proverbial rabbit hypnotized by the cobra.

He was doing it again, letting Garak lure him into this strange seduction of heated arguments and electrifying public touches and he couldn't, wouldn't give in this time. Not with so many questions still unanswered. Bashir rubbed his palms over his face.

Garak was still speaking. "Her poems lack deeper meaning, doctor. They are exactly as they seem, a one dimensional praise of Cardassia's natural beauty."

Garak's leg pressed again against Bashir's and Bashir, heart beating fast – too fast – yelped and scooted his chair back quickly enough for it to topple over with a clang. The nearby customers turned their heads and Bashir blushed a furious, scalding red.

He leaned heavily onto the table with both hands, trying to get control of the situation. No matter how much he wanted it, wanted Garak to touch him, wanted – No. Not yet, at least.

And through all of this Garak just sat there with infuriating calm, a pleasant noncommittal smile on his face.

"Uhm." Bashir briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm going to get a cup of tea. Would you like anything from the replicator?"

"I'm sure anything you choose will be a delight, my dear." Garak looked at him with calculating, assessing eyes and – Bashir worried his lip and turned to right the chair.

"I'll be right back."

Pushing the chair back under the table he all but fled.

The line at the replicator was surprisingly long and for once Bashir welcomed it. He needed time to think.

Oh, the attraction was still there, there was no denying that, but that had never been the issue in question. The one crucial thing he was still not certain about was if or how far he could trust Garak.

Giving Garak credit for not bugging the snow globe was a bit like damning him with faint praise.

Bashir took a step forward as the queue moved. At this time of the afternoon the on-break crowd was just arriving and there were still many empty tables at the replimat. They reminded Bashir uncomfortably of all the meals he'd eaten here recently, alone –

His eyes were drawn back over to where Garak was sitting. He didn't want to neglect and lose this friendship before he was 100% certain – one way or another. And was there really any harm as long as he was being careful? There certainly was no reason not to have the occasional lunch with Garak.

When Bashir got back from the replicator he was carrying a tray with a peace offering. He felt a bit of an arse for having overreacted the way he had earlier.

Garak was still sitting at their table, and Bashir let out a relieved sigh. He'd been worried that he might have left.

"Can you move my PADD?" Bashir addressed him from a couple of steps away. "I got us dessert."

"That was most thoughtful of you, my dear." Garak titled his head up to see what was on the tray.

The genuine pleasure on Garak's face made Bashir's heart skip a beat. He'd be a fool to give this up.

"Let me introduce you to the delights of chocolate lava cake." Bashir put the small plate down in front of Garak.

"Careful, the filling is hot." Bashir warned and then tried to rekindle their discussion. "So, about Evek."

"Did you know that she went into the Helta Highlands to write those _poems_?" Garak licked his spoon with obvious enjoyment of the dessert. "She was one of the leading figures in an art movement that tried to be subversively subversive by writing about nothing but Cardassia's beautiful nature."

"What happened to her?" Bashir couldn't see that end well.

"Oh, she got arrested for tax evasion." Garak stated with smug satisfaction. "She got resettled and lived out her days working on a farm. Poetic justice, don't you think, my dear?"

-::-

Bashir yawned and reached for the PADD on his nightstand. He flicked through the anthology until he found where he'd left off last night.

He was still a bit disappointed that there was no memento moris to be had in Evek's poems. He'd liked them much better that way. One would think that Cardassians of all people would enjoy the morbidity of death amidst the vitality of spring, but… oh, well.

Ants as pollinators. He'd never have guessed.

Then he sat up straight in his bed. What about the bees? There had been plenty of bees around during their holo-trio to He'naktar. Suddenly very suspicious, Bashir got out of bed and walked over to his workstation.

"Computer: access database 'Cardassian Fauna'. List all references to 'soldier wasp' in order of relevance."

"No entries found."

Bashir ran a hand through his hair. That couldn't be right. Maybe Garak had been using a colloquial name –

Bashir pulled his office chair closer and sat down.

"Computer: access database 'Cardassian Fauna'. List all references to 'wasp' in order of relevance."

"No entries found."

"Computer: repeat search and include all references to 'bee'."

"No entries found."

This was getting curiouser and curiouser. Maybe what he needed was a more scientific approach.

"Computer: compile a list of insects native to Cardassia Prime; order: hymenoptera, suborder: apocrita."

"List completed."

Bashir scooted his chair closer, and started scrolling through the compilation. It contained ants, thirty-thousand four-hundred and seventy-three species of ants.

"Computer: sort list into parasitica and aculeate."

Bashir got up and replicated himself a cup of tea. He carried it back over to the console, just in time for the computer to finish compiling his list.

Focusing on the parasitic section Bashir scrolled past many fascinating superfamilies of ants but there was not one single bee or wasp on the entire list. It seemed that Garak hadn't lied about ants being the main pollinators on Cardassia. Well, the second time, for all that it was worth.

Bashir leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his tea, contemplating what he'd just learned.

Why had Garak lied about the wasps? Why had he altered a whole holo-program just to – what exactly?

Bashir's mind replayed the conversation they'd had about the 'soldier wasp' and then it hit him like the proverbial hammer.

Had Garak gone out of his way to warn him about the Cardassians being behind The Circle's weapons' supply?

What was it that Garak had said?

_The soldier wasp uses the orchid as camouflage, and when an unsuspecting bee pollinates the orchid, it lays its eggs on it. Then the bee carries them unknowingly back to its hive – And in their larva state they burrow into the bee's body, slowly eating it alive from the inside out. They're quite the tenacious pest._

How could he have missed this? Bright orange orchid, grey parasitic wasp with blue eyes, infecting the drones without them even realizing …

Had Garak tried to help? Why then hadn't he continued the game, dragged Bashir along? Why was this different than Tahna Los, or the whole mess with Rugal?

_"What do you want me to do with this?" He'd asked Garak._  
_"That is up to you to decide, my dear."_

Had it all been up to him? Could he have walked away at any minute and Garak would have dropped the issue?  
The evidence spoke for that and that thought was oddly comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Garak hadn't manipulated him into anything… well, not overly anyway. He'd made that choice himself. And, truth be told, it wasn't as if he needed any incentive to play spy.

He still wasn't closer to an answer to whether he could trust the Cardassian. He hadn't even figured out when Garak was telling the truth or when he was being led in a merry chase of clever lies.

Bashir drained the rest of his tea and got up to recycle the mug.

But maybe he didn't have to unravel every single mystery Garak presented. After all, that was part of his charm. And he couldn't deny that it had been fun. As long as he had a choice about his role in the game, and now that he was aware of there being a choice most importantly –

Bashir grinned as he got back into bed. Maybe he would stop by Garak's shop tomorrow and see if his friend had time for lunch.

-::-

Bashir was running the dermal regenerator over his patient's bruised index and middle finger, shaking his head in disbelief at the improbable injury. The man had managed to get his hand caught in the turbolift door. Turbolifts were safe – there was a less than 0.004% chance of them malfunctioning – it was virtually impossible for an accident like this to happen. And yet here was Mr. Prylar with two broken fingers.

And he was not the first one either. Nor, Bashir suppressed a sigh, would he be the last. There were 28 people waiting for their turn, the queue winding three shops down the Promenade. Even with the nurses taking care of the minor injuries, they'd all most likely be pulling overtime and there seemed to be no end in sight.

Bashir switched the setting of the regenerator from dermis to epidermis.

So far none of the injuries had been severe; just a never-ending number of sprains, cuts, minor burns and bruises.

The improbability of the injuries was starting to give him a headache that even a liberal dose of triptacedrine hadn't been able to take the edge off of. He wasn't used to dealing with a reality where less than 1% became more probable than 90%.

"All done, Mr. Prylar." Bashir forced a smile as the man hopped off the examination table.

The queue had grown to 36 people.

"Next."

Nurse Jabara hobbled into the examination room, leaning heavily on… Garak.

Bashir blinked at the surreal scene, looking from Jabara to Garak and back, feeling his headache growing.

"Doctor." Jabara gave him a wan, pain-muted smile.

"What happened?"

"Ms Jabara had the most unfortunate accident –" Garak started to explain when Jabara interrupted.

"I was trying on my new dress and my foot got stuck in the hem." She blushed, obviously embarrassed. "I'm not usually this clumsy."

With Garak's and Bashir's help, Jabara hopped to the examination table and let out a relieved sigh.

"Well, let's see how bad it is, shall we?" Bashir reached for his scanner, running it over her ankle.

"You're lucky. It's only twisted. This will only take a minute." Bashir pressed a hypospray against her leg, injecting a mild painkiller with anti-inflammatory properties, then turned around and pulled open one of the drawers in the med-cabinet, taking out a deep-tissue regenerator.

He held it to her ankle and pressed the power button and – nothing.

Bashir examined the tool. How could its battery be empty, the probability of that happening was – Bashir closed his eyes for a second, wondering if he'd dare risk another dose of triptacedrine.

"If I'm not needed here, I shall leave you in Dr. Bashir's capable hands, my dear." Garak gave Jabara a warm smile.

"Doctor," Garak turned toward Bashir. "I take it lunch today is out of the question?"

"I'm afraid so." Bashir frowned slightly at the inevitable. "Will I see you at the match?"

"I wouldn't miss it in the world, my dear." Garak gave him a saccharinely sly smile that Bashir returned with a pointed glare.

Garak tilted his head in a formal little nod, turned on his heels and walked out of the infirmary. Bashir watched him leave, admiring just how well the cut of Garak's tunic accentuated his neck-ridges.

Jabara coughed, looking amused.

"Doctor?"

"Oh, uh yes. Right," Bashir stuttered and turned away from her trying to hide the blush he felt creeping up. He took a different deep-tissue regenerator out of the drawer and started healing her ankle.

At least the flood of minor accidents would keep him busy. He dreaded the rematch Quark had so kindly scheduled for him and O'Brien. If he had known that O'Brien reacted the way he had to friendly competition he'd never set foot into that racquetball court. Instead of – as he had hoped – making a friend, he had the feeling that he was alienating O'Brien even further.

If not for the orphans he wouldn't even consider it. He was very, very tempted to just get the match over with as quickly as possible but he didn't want to humiliate the Chief in front of well – everyone. Hopefully today's probable improbability did not include emergency open-heart surgery.

-::-

Bashir looked around the lab on the T'Lani space station, feeling the adrenaline of a true challenge wash over him. He and Chief O'Brien were here to destroy a weapon of mass destruction and aid in the peace process between the T'Lani and the Kesselrun, ending a century of war. It was truly exhilarating.

From what information he'd been given, the Harvester was a truly ingenious, if utterly evil creation: a sophisticated synthetic virus small enough to permeate the epidermis, making it deadly on contact. Classified as a biogenetic gene disruptor, the T'Lani claimed the Harvester had taken their scientists more than ten years to create and that the virus was meant to be virtually indestructible.

Bashir grinned. He'd see about that.

"Computer: Show Harvester DNA and RNA."

Bashir marveled at the images that came up side by side on his console. It was easy to see how a virus like this, with intrastrand double helix RNA, was proving such a pain to neutralize: it was breathtakingly complex.

After three hours of comparing the strands and searching them for weaknesses to be exploited, Bashir found his first clue toward a potential cure. He tapped his index finger against the monitor, feeling smug.

There was an 82% chance of inducing hydrolysis and degenerating the Harvester's RNA if one subjected it to the right frequency of muon particles.

Bashir got up and replicated himself a celebratory cup of tarkalean tea. Not that he could tell anyone just yet. By his calculation it would take a talented non-augmented scientist about two days to find the RNA weakness he'd just discovered.

He'd tell them in due time. Until then he'd continue to study the Harvesters and – Bashir took a sip from his mug and looked around the lab – T'Lani women were really quite attractive.

-::-

Bashir stretched and yawned as he stepped out of the room, giving the O'Briens some privacy. He yawned again, thinking longingly about his nice, comfy bed in his own quarters. All that he had to do was finish the report and he would be out of here. He hadn't slept in 35.8 hours, not since before the T'Lani had tried to kill them. There had been moments, back on the surface and even on the runabout, when he'd fought near impossible odds to keep O'Brien alive. He was grateful that everything had worked out in the end. That had been a disturbingly close call.

The door closed behind him when he heard Mrs. O'Brien mildly chide her husband.

"Miles, he saved your life, you know."*

Bashir stopped mid-stride, aware that he shouldn't listen, but this was about him.

"He's never going to let me forget it."

Bashir frowned at the Chief's reply; that wasn't what he'd meant at all. Why would O'Brien think he'd do that? He knew he should keep walking, but –

"So what was it like spending all that time alone with him?"

"It was hell. You can see for yourself the man never stops talking." 

"Oh–" Bashir felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under him. He quickly stepped away from the door, fled across the room and into his office, out of the range of his trice-damned enhanced hearing.

That's what he got for eavesdropping –

Bashir cursed his own curiosity and sat down heavily at his console, feeling like a complete idiot. Was he really that naïve?

To think that he had not only taken O'Brien's last words at face value, but no, he had to go and thank him. Bashir's cheeks burned in humiliation.

He opened the file he had been working on earlier, tried to concentrate on it, but couldn't. His tired mind was spinning in sleep-deprived circles, recalling every single conversation, every interaction he had had with Chief O'Brien, breaking them down into probabilities, analyzing them and – Bashir rubbed his hands over his face. He'd made a proper arse out of himself thinking that they were – could be – friends. He should have known better.

What O'Brien had said back on T'Lani Three, that it had been an honor serving with him, when they were about to die… had meant nothing, had been no more sincere than a 'good morning'. No wonder the Chief couldn't even remember he'd said it.

_He's never going to let me forget it._

The words kept on echoing in his mind: O'Brien's assessment of his character battering at him in an endless, vicious loop. And the worst part was that Bashir couldn't even dismiss it as an insult. He was never supposed to have even heard.

The matter-of-fact way O'Brien had stated it stung. Was it true? Did he do that?

Bashir stared at his report, not really seeing it. After a while the console went into sleep mode and Bashir touched the screen to keep it active.

O'Brien was right about him never shutting up. He was self-aware enough to know that he tended to babble when he was nervous. Did that mean O'Brien was right about the other thing too?

And – Bashir's eyes went wide with horror – did his colleagues agree?

What had he said or done for them to think so little of him?

What made the Chief think that he would use saving his life as leverage? What could he possibly have said to O'Brien –

…when two people face death together, it creates a bond …

Oh god, O'Brien was right, he really did this. Had he done this to all of his colleagues?

Bashir covered his face in his hands. He'd never meant for his words to be interpreted that way.

Before he could stop himself his mind started listing all the incidences where he'd saved lives since he'd come to the station, and when he'd talked about it with any member of the senior staff. Voices flooded his brain, bits of conversations long past, overlapping, unsettling, maddening.

Bashir yawned again, suddenly feeling every single of the 129655 seconds he'd been awake. 129656. 129657. He pinched his arm to make himself stop counting.

What about the essay he'd written on the aphasiavirus? No, that was unlikely. There was only a 7.5% chance anyone – even Dax – would keep up with the Starfleet Medical Journal and have read it. Bashir rubbed his temples, feeling a headache forming. Even if someone had read the essay, he'd given Surmak full credit for his contribution.

But what about –

"Enough!" Bashir smacked his palms onto the table, focusing on the stinging sensation, willing his mind to let it go. The sound of his own voice echoed off the office walls, making him cringe. He hoped that no one had noticed his outburst.

Not wanting to deal with anyone at the moment, he closed his office doors and replicated himself a raktajino. The sooner he finished writing his report on Chief O'Brien's injuries and treatment, the sooner he would be out of here to lick his wounds in private.

He was three pages in, summarizing the final treatment, when the doors opened and Mrs. O'Brien entered his office.

"Doctor Bashir?" She hovered near his desk. "Do you have a moment?"

Bashir suppressed a weary sigh and looked up from his workstation, meeting her eyes.

"Of course." Voice tight, lips pressed together, he tried not to let his unease show. He knew it wasn't fair to resent her, but right now the last thing he wanted was to deal with the witness to his most recent humiliation.

"Miles said the Harvester was some kind of bio-weapon, is that true?" Mrs. O'Brien inquired.

"Yes," Bashir confirmed, not trusting his voice to elaborate.

"But he's going to be all right?" She fidgeted, her lips a thin line of worry.

There were dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept at all since – Bashir felt a pang of sympathy. She probably hadn't.

"Yes." Bashir nodded, trying to sound reassuring. This he could do. Comforting a patient's family was routine. "He's going to be fine."

"Is he still contagious? Even a little?" Mrs. O'Brien wrung her hands. "It's just, Molly misses her dad – "

"It's perfectly safe for her to visit, Mrs. O'Brien." Bashir gave her a small, sympathetic smile. "A short visit won't do any harm. Just keep in mind that your husband needs his rest."

"Of course." Mrs. O'Brien relaxed visibly. "Molly will be so happy."

"Oh and Dr. Bashir–" She looked away, not meeting his eyes. "Thank you for saving Miles' life."

Bashir frowned, his hand tightening around his mug, not sure how to respond. Was she testing him? Wondering if the Chief was right, that he would never let O'Brien forget that he'd saved his live? There was a 36% chance that – No, that was crazy. He didn't know her well, but she'd always struck him as kind.

"I should be the one thanking you," Bashir said after a moment, the tiny traitorous voice in the back of his mind instantly questioning his motives.

Would you have thanked her otherwise? Are you manipulating her into believing you care?

Bashir stomped hard on that part of his conscience. He was no Khan, and he would be damned if he lived up to O'Brien's bad opinion of him. Bashir ran a hand over his face, wishing for Mrs. O'Brien to leave already. He was so tired.

"If you hadn't insisted that the footage had been manipulated –"

He let his voice trail out into uncomfortable silence.

"It turns out I was wrong after all." She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and at Bashir's puzzled look explained further. "He does drink coffee in the afternoon."

"Ah. Well, I, for one, am glad that you didn't give up on us." Bashir smiled weakly at her. He did mean it, he tried to reassure himself. Without her they'd both be dead.

Mrs. O'Brien looked at him as if she wanted to say something more, seemed to struggle with the decision and in the end just gave him a small nod.

"I'm going to get Molly."

-::-

Bashir threw his blanket back and got out of bed. He'd not be getting sleep any time soon, no matter how tired he was. His mind kept on repeating and twisting what O'Brien had said in an endless circle and nothing short of a miracle, or at the very least a couple of very strong drinks, would make it stop.

"Computer: Ferengi Black Hole, double."

Bashir took his drink over to the sofa and sat down, drawing his legs up under him, only to get back up 12 seconds later, leaving his glass untouched on the table.

What about Quark? He'd saved Quark's life more than once.

Bashir raked his hands through his hair, fingertips pressing into the back of his skull before he let his arms fall in a frustrated gesture to his side.

Quark didn't matter. He wasn't exactly his friend. Sure, they would chat amiably when he was at the bar and Quark had shown him some neat lock-picking tricks, but he doubted the Ferengi felt any kind of obligation toward him. And even if Quark did, Ferengi saw obligations as a business matter. If Quark felt he owed Bashir he would treat it like any other financial transaction.

The one and only time Bashir had ever gotten a discount – which he'd learned meant from a Ferengi that Quark was truly grateful – was when he'd saved Dax.

Bashir took another sip of his drink, smiling grimly at the contents of his glass. That he would come to appreciate the simplistic honesty in greed –

So, what about Jadzia then? He'd recently saved her life when Verad had tried to steal the Dax Symbiont. Did she think she owed him?

Bashir sighed with relief; at least they'd never actually – he shuddered in revulsion at the idea of anyone thinking they owed him sex for doing his job.

But Jadzia had undeniably been spending more time with him recently. Was that because she thought she owed him, out of obligation?

Bashir started pacing again. To the window, around his sofa and back again.

No, not Jadzia. Dax spent time with all kinds of people others didn't like –

_Oh, great, that was a reassuring thought._

Bashir downed the rest of his drink in one big gulp.

Had he manipulated her into spending time with him, however unintentionally? Or worse, was she spending time with him out of pity?

Bashir pushed the empty tumbler onto his nightstand. He sat down on his bed and surreptitiously reached for Kukalaka.

The list of people who actually did spend time with him off-duty was pretty short and he couldn't help but wonder –

His door chimed, interrupting his train of thought, and Bashir stood up, annoyed at the intrusion.

Anyone important would comm him.

"Computer: identify visitor."

"Visual identified as resident Garak."

Bashir sighed, put Kukalaka back on his shelf and went to answer the door. What could Garak want? Did he want to see if Bashir wanted to join him for a cup of tea? To welcome him back? Bashir yawned again. No matter how tired Bashir felt, it was barely afternoon on the station.

"Enter."

The door opened and Bashir was taken aback by just how distraught Garak looked. There were rings under his bloodshot eyes, as if he hadn't slept in days, and his usually cheerful expression was one of weariness.

"Doctor!" Garak entered the room and stepped close, into Bashir's personal space.

The door swooshed closed behind him, leaving them but a foot apart in unusual silence.

Then Garak reached out and took hold of Bashir's shoulders with both hands, but instead of immediately pulling him into an embrace he held him at arm's length for a moment, looking him up and down, as if to determine that this was really him, that he was actually real, before crushing Bashir to his chest with desperate strength.

"Garak?" _He thought I was dead._

Bashir returned the embrace, let Garak wrap him in his arms. Then they tumbled backwards, away from the door and toward the bedroom. Bashir wasn't sure who had started the kiss but it was hard and desperate and he knew that he wanted this, wanted to stop thinking, wanted to drown out the negativity of the past couple of days in pleasure.

_He didn't have to come._

That Garak was here out of his own volition, without there being any kind of debt, any obligation between them, was intensely arousing.

Bashir spun Garak around with augmented strength, pressing him flat against the wall. He waited a fraction of a second before giving Garak a second little shove, making sure Garak understood that this was on his terms, that it was Bashir's game tonight and that he was – needed to be – in control.

Garak let out a little surprised huff but Bashir kissed the frown away, making Garak moan and yield.

Their kisses turned frantic, hard, biting and Bashir's fingers threaded through Garak's hair, thumbs roughly caressing his aural ridges, tracing them, following them past Garak's hairline all the way to the back of his skull. Bashir's thigh pressed urgently down between Garak's legs, needing to know, to make certain that Garak wanted this just as much as he did.

Garak moaned and his hands slid down to Bashir's arse, caressing, squeezing, pulling their bodies even closer together, his already everted cock rubbing maddeningly against Bashir's through the thick fabric of their clothes.

His quarters definitely had advantages, Bashir thought, as they made their way – moaning, kissing and undressing – into his bedroom. For one, it was blessedly free of surveillance devices. Even Odo would not dare to bug the quarters of command staff. The other advantage was the much bigger bed.

Bashir fell backwards onto it, dragging Garak down with him, his hands searching for the cleverly-hidden fastenings of the Cardassian's tunic.

Garak had a much easier time. The buttons to Bashir's pajamas were easily undone and Garak's cool, sleek hands ran up Bashir's torso to his neck making Bashir shiver and arch into the caress. Garak's teasing, lying mouth trailed a burning line of biting kisses down Bashir's chest, the tip of his tongue tracing the outline of Bashir's cock through the thin cotton of his pajama pants.

The rest of their clothes ended up on the floor with frantic speed and Bashir wrapped his legs around Garak and upending their positions with a smooth wrestling move, putting him astride Garak's thighs.

Hands on either side of Garak's head, Bashir leaned in for a quick, burning kiss before Garak pulled him down into glorious full body contact, the sleek slide of scales against skin just as thrilling as Bashir remembered.

Bashir's finger dug into Garak's back, nails scraping over the thick scales of his spinal ridge, and Garak moaned, drawing Bashir impossibly closer, then reaching between them, fine scaled fingers caressing both of their cocks at the same time.

Bashir's hand joined Garak's and they slid, rocked and moaned together in frantic thrusts, desperate for closeness and release.

The wormhole flared into life behind them and Bashir pulled Garak into a possessive, biting kiss as the brilliant hues of blue and lilac danced through the room.

With the emotional upheaval of the past couple of days neither of them lasted long.

Bashir gasped at the sensual, erotic pain of Garak biting down on the side of his neck hard enough to leave a mark as he came; the soothing kiss that followed and the slick, sly pressure of Garak's hand on his prick dragged Bashir over the edge, into white-hot pleasure and relief.

They lay wrapped around each other for a few brief moments, heartbeats slowly returning to normal, hands trading idle, sated caresses.

Bashir yawned and the all-too-human gesture seemed to break the spell.

Garak disentangled himself from Bashir's embrace and sat up. He turned his back to Bashir, posture rigid, making it clear that he was about to get up and leave, when Bashir caught his hand and entwined their fingers. He tugged gently at Garak's hand, making him turn around to face Bashir.

"Garak?" Bashir pressed their palms together, willing down the knot forming in his stomach. He didn't like the guarded, withdrawn expression on Garak's face. He tugged again at Garak's hand and let out a sigh of relief when Garak settled back down next to him and wrapped an arm around Bashir's waist.

"Stay."


	9. Chapter 9

Bashir woke in the middle of the night; throat dry and heart thumping painfully in his chest. He lay frozen in panic as the afterimage of the T'Lani aiming their rifles at him – them – flashed unrelentingly before his eyes. For one dreadful, adrenalin filled moment he'd thought, with the clarity and calm that comes when facing the inevitable fact that that was it, that he would die then and there.

O'Brien's dead weight dragged on his shoulder and Bashir struggled to support him, panic clutching at his chest.

"You're back on the station," Garak's voice cut through his fear, anchored him in the here and now. "Everything's alright, my dear."

He blinked groggily against the dread that stuck to his senses like molasses, spilled over from his nightmare, clung to his mind and made his heart race in fury.

_Garak._

Cool lips pressed into the nape of his neck and Bashir heard Garak mutter something that sounded very much like an endearment.

A sleep-heavy arm tightened around his waist and Bashir settled back against Garak's chest willing his heartbeat to slow. He was home, in his own bed, he repeated to himself, hoping it would sink in. He wasn't about to die alone with only the Chief's insincere words to –

Bashir reached out and searched in the darkness for Garak's hand, twining their fingers on top of the silver bed sheet. He let himself be pulled deeper into the comfort of Garak's embrace. He felt safe and warm and more content than he'd been in a long time. Bashir closed his eyes, asleep within seconds.

He didn't remember dreaming again that night.

-::-

When Bashir awoke, he was alone.

"Computer: time."

It wasn't often that his internal clock couldn't provide him with the accurate time down to the second but with such severe sleep deprivation, it was to be expected.

He hadn't even noticed Garak leaving.

Bashir felt a pang of hurt looking at the empty, cold side of the bed, which quickly changed into guilty relief that Garak had taken that particular choice from him.

"The current time is nine-hundred hours thirty-seven minutes."

Bashir stretched and yawned. He'd slept for 15.3 hours. No wonder he felt so much better.

And while that explained Garak's absence, his plain and simple friend tended to open his shop around 09:00, it would have been nice to wake up next to –

Bashir stomped on the maudlin thoughts trying to resurface, remembering his rather embarrassing histrionics from last night. He cringed at how he had obsessed over O'Brien's opinion about him.

He rubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. At least he'd had enough sense left in him to go back to his quarters and not to Quark's. The last thing he needed was for someone to have witnessed that.

Bashir's hand clenched around the bed sheet, bunching it up in frustration. Not that it was apparently possible for his colleagues to think any less of him.

His eyes flicked back over to the empty side of the bed.

Bashir sighed and picked the single jet-black hair-like filoplume up from the pillow Garak had slept on. He twirled it between his fingers, fascinated how sleek it felt one way and yet how rough against its grain.

He calculated with relief that there was an 81% certainty that Garak hadn't noticed his meltdown. Garak was a problem, though. The closer he let the Cardassian get the harder it became to remember that he had a secret to protect and while last night's intimacy had been – Bashir shook his head. It could not be. In the cold hard light of day it was too much of a risk to take.

He'd too much to lose. Casual hook-ups were one thing but if word of his romantic entanglement with Garak got out, there was a 97.4% certainty of Starfleet Security taking issue with command staff dating Cardassian operatives.

There was not even the smallest chance that they'd be able to keep a relationship secret for long, not with Odo's obsessive interest in Garak's comings and goings.  
And once Odo knew, he'd inform Starfleet Security and Bashir would be considered a potential security risk. The resulting investigation would mean the certain exposure of his secret and –

Dishonorable discharge, public humiliation and – worse than any prison sentence – being locked away in some kind of mental institution for his presumed augmentation induced mental instability.

To be locked away for his _own good_ , reduced, limited to watching the universe through a computer console.

Bashir shuddered. He'd not be giving the benefit of the doubt. Khan's second grab for world domination and the following massacre on Regula I had happened only 85 years ago. Still within living memory.

And assuming he ever did get out, the stigma of his augmentation would ensure that no one would ever offer him a job again. And to add insult to injury, he'd be barred from any research that required even the most basic clearance. Bashir's lips pressed into a hard line. He just couldn't see himself designing gardens; he'd run first. Hop the next research ship to the Gamma Quadrant, even if that meant leaving everything behind it was better than the alternative.

Bashir yawned and pushed the bed sheet away ready to get up and replicate himself a cup of tea. He didn't like thinking about the consequences of his deception, avoided it on most days. The odds were just too depressing.

Feet searching for his slippers Bashir stretched and rolled his shoulders, stiff from sharing a bed. His fingertips brushed the bite-mark shaped bruise Garak had given him last night, and he felt an electric shiver at the memory rush through him. He pushed away the feelings trying to well up and walked over to the replicator.

"Computer: Tarkalean tea; hot, extra sweet."

This, whatever it was had to remain casual, he decided as he waited for his tea to materialize. Bashir's frowned at the hot, steaming mug. It was not worth the risk.

And anyway, Bashir told himself as he sipped his tea, it wasn't as if Garak had declared his undying love. Garak hadn't stayed, hadn't even – in all the months they'd known each other – told him his given name.

Casual was better, Bashir told himself, eyes lingering on the empty bed.

In the end, it always boiled down to the same thing, just like it had with Palis: he wasn't willing to risk his career, everything he had worked and lied for, for what could be between them.

-::-

"How's the headache?"

Bashir ran his scanner over Sisko's forehead then sucked the air in through his teeth in disapproval at the readings.

"Not as bad as it was." Sisko admitted, trying to sound optimistic, but Bashir could hear the thinly disguised exhaustion in his voice.

"Are you feeling nauseated? Dizzy?"

"No."

Bashir gave Sisko a skeptical look, but didn't reach for the hypo-spray.

"You are very lucky to be alive, sir. Dehydration and untreated heat stroke are no joking matter," Bashir gently admonished, feeling like he needed to remind his commander, since Sisko didn't seem to treat his recovery with the seriousness it deserved.

Sisko didn't reply to that. Instead he rested his head against the back of the biobed, eyes closed momentarily.

Bashir noticed with satisfaction that a thin sheen of sweat was forming on Sisko's face, even if his body core-temperature was still too high. That he was sweating again on his own was a good sign and Bashir adjusted the settings, slightly reducing the auto-cooling.

"I can't imagine what that must have been like, locked in a box like that in extreme heat," Bashir addressed Sisko, trying to engage him in conversation.

He couldn't risk his patient losing consciousness, Sisko's vitals were still not in the green. Even with Starfleet medical technology the commander's physical recovery time would be at least 36 hours, the psychological effect on the other hand – he'd have to schedule Sisko for a couple of sessions with a counselor. That kind of trauma was not to be dismissed easily.

"I assure you, Doctor, I have no intention of repeating that experience."

Sisko peered at him with droopy eyes, his voice sleepy.

"Well, I for one am glad we got you out of there in time, sir."

Bashir ran the scanner one more time over Commander Sisko's torso, checking his breathing and heart rate.

"To think that any Federation citizen would do something so barbaric," Bashir reached over to adjust the biobed according to the scanner readings. "I can't even imagine wanting to live like that."

"Not exactly my idea of paradise, either." Sisko agreed and yawned. "I mean it would be one thing if they had chosen that kind of life, but getting tricked into leaving everyone you love behind –"

"Did they really manage to block all EM activity? That sounds impossible." Bashir asked, keeping his eyes firmly on his scanner. It wouldn't do for the commander to get suspicious, but information on how to simultaneously disable scanners, transporters and communication could come in handy when the day came that he'd have to run.

"They used some kind of duonetic field." Sisko reached for his glass of ORT and took a sip. "You'll have to ask Chief O'Brien to explain the details."

"Right," Bashir muttered, low under his breath. His eyes darted over to O'Brien's biobed on the other side of the room, where the Chief was more or less patiently waiting for Bashir to treat his sunburn. Accessing O'Brien's report on the mainframe would be much less trouble.

"So many people must have died unnecessarily. I took a seminar on primitive medical techniques." Bashir shook his head sadly, diverting the conversation. "There are certainly some things you can accomplish, but the mortality rate increases exponentially."

"I'll take a hypo-spray any day," Sisko agreed, eyes drifting shut again.

"Nearly done, Commander." Bashir touched Sisko lightly on the shoulder to get his attention. "Sir, I know you're tired but I need you to stay awake just a tiny bit longer. I'd like to scan you again in about twenty minutes just to make sure, but you should be ready to go home after that."

Bashir put the medical scanner back into its case, closing it with a snap and stored it in the console.

"Doctor's orders are a hot meal and a good night's rest. And to make sure you make a full recovery –" Bashir tried to keep a straight face. "I have enlisted reinforcements."

Sisko strained to sit up and folding his arms in front of his chest. "Meaning?"

"Jake will be here any minute and he promised me to make sure you follow my instructions to the letter." Bashir put a gentle hand on Sisko's shoulder, urging to lie back down on to the bed.

"Please lie back down, sir."

"I surrender!"

Sisko held up his hands, clearly amused, but he did as asked and settled back down on the biobed. Bashir could hear the exhaustion in his voice. The walk back to his quarters would be taxing for him and if there had been any way but outright pulling rank on Sisko that would make him stay in the infirmary – Bashir sighed.

"Surrender to what?" Mrs O'Brien asked as she entered the infirmary, Molly on her arm.

"Mrs O'Brien." Bashir nodded at her in greeting then gave Molly a smile. "Hi Molly."

"Hi." She smiled shyly then hid her face in her mom's neck.

"I'm nearly done here. Why don't you two say a quick hello before I get started?" Bashir addressed first Mrs O'Brien then turned to Molly. "I just need to run some last scans and then your daddy will be free to go."

Molly nodded solemnly, but her guarded expression faded and she returned his smile. She watched him from the safety of her mother's arms as Mrs O'Brien carried her over to where Chief O'Brien was resting on his biobed.

Not wanting to get caught staring Bashir turned away as O'Brien greeted his family, wondering – with a pang of jealousy – if the man knew just how lucky he was.

Pretending to recheck the already perfect settings on Sisko's biobed, he tried to banish the maudlin thoughts hovering in the back of his head. There was no point dwelling on what could not be.

The 96.4% risk of passing on his enhancements and the inevitable associated stigma was too great to even contemplate having a family. He couldn't do that to a child.

"I'd like for you to–" Bashir made a grab for the PADD before Sisko could – how on Earth had Sisko managed to get a copy of the latest reports – and pressed his lips together in disapproval. "Rest until Jake gets here, sir, but try not to fall asleep."

"Now if you will excuse me. I need to see after Chief O'Brien."

Bashir picked up the scanner case and stepped over to O'Brien's biobed. He cleared his throat, waiting for Mrs O'Brien to notice him.

"It will just be a moment," he reassured her once he'd had her attention. "Would you mind keeping Commander Sisko company? He's not supposed to fall asleep."

"Of course, Doctor."

Mrs O'Brien nodded and took Molly by the hand leading her over to talk to Sisko.

Bashir pulled open the top drawer, taking out the medical scanner case. He sat it down on the small table next to the biobed, snapping the locks open with his thumbs.

 _The man never shuts up._ O'Brien's derisive words surfaced unbidden in Bashir's mind, hovering, poisoning his mood.

"If you would please hold still for a moment, Chief."

Bashir grimly, silently waited for O'Brien's agreement, scanner in hand. Oh, he'd show him.

"Yes, sir."

O'Brien harrumphed but did as asked.

"Please breathe normally during the scan," Bashir forced his voice to stay pleasant and impersonal.

"Thank you."

Bashir started to work, refraining from his usual bedside chatter, reminding himself that O'Brien didn't like him and had no interest in friendly conversation. He, too, had some pride.

The soft 43 decibel hum of the medical scanner sounded particularly loud in the silence, only broken now and then by Mrs O'Brien chatting with Commander Sisko about an upcoming history project she was planning for the students. His back stiffened when he felt their eyes linger on him, but he refused to turn around.

Bashir focused on the sound, letting it drown out any trace of their conversation. He would not listen in, even though he easily could. He'd learned his lesson.

The 82 seconds it took to thoroughly scan O'Brien felt like an eternity.

The scanner indicated the end of the scan with a blinking green light and Bashir scrolled through the raw data, finding nothing alarming in the readings, other than the obvious sunburn. He'd been slightly worried about parasites since Commander Sisko had mentioned manual field labor, but luckily there was no trace. Surprisingly, even O'Brien's blood pressure was within normal parameters, which given what he'd seen of the Chief's diet, was nothing short of a miracle.

"Other than second degree burns on your face and the back of your neck you are in perfect health."

Bashir switched the scanner off, stowing it away.

"I could have told you that, Julian," O'Brien groused, shifting impatiently on the biobed.

Bashir's mouth pinched into a thin line of annoyance. _Julian._ Why had he ever asked O'Brien to call him that?

He reached for the dermal regenerator without acknowledging O'Brien's comment.

"Please close your eyes while I heal the burn on your face." It cost Bashir a lot of self-control to not let his feelings seep into his voice, but judging from O'Brien's non-reaction, he seemed to have succeeded.

"Thank you. Now lean forward, please."

Bashir continued to run the generator over O'Brien's neck, watching the reddened, blistered skin slowly return to its normal color.

"That's it, Chief." Bashir turned away and toward Mrs O'Brien. "Please let me know immediately if there is any sudden dizziness or headaches."

"Of course, Doctor." Mrs O'Brien shifted Molly on her arm and fixed him with a calculating expression on her face that softened when O'Brien got off the biobed to embrace his family.

Bashir walked away without another word, busying himself with tidying up.

-::-

Bashir was whistling under his breath as he entered Garak's unusually brightly lit shop – all the way to Federation standard – and stopped mid song in surprise when he not only found Garak busy with a customer, but a Bajoran customer at that.

"Ah, Doctor, what wonderful timing!" Garak turned to him, a pleasant customer service smile on his face, and gestured toward Nurse Jabara. "What do you think?"

"Red or yellow, Doctor?" Jabara held up two fabric samples.

"Uhm. I like the yellow one," Bashir said after contemplating both choices.

"The red one it is then." Garak turned to face Jabara, gently taking the swatches from her. "It really is so much more flattering, my dear."

"Hey, what's wrong with yellow? I like yellow!" Bashir protested then grinned when Garak rolled his eyes at him.

"Of course _you_ do. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with yellow, and it would be a lovely choice– " Garak let out an exasperated sigh, as he noted down Jabara's choice on his PADD. "If Ms Jabara had a different complexion and hair color."

"So, what are you making?" Bashir turned to an amused looking Jabara.

"A summer dress." She reached for a PADD that was lying on top of a bolt of olive-green crushed velvet, activating it for Bashir to see. "My sister sent me the newest summer fashion from the capital."

With Jabara and Garak busy discussing the final details of her dress, Bashir flicked through the images, more interested in the Bajorans than in the fashion itself. He'd long ago accepted that his augmentations didn’t include a sense of style, or fashion – more than one ex-partner had teased him about it. Not that he minded. In some way it was comforting that not everything had been changed – _enhanced_ – that there was still some tiny part of Jules left in him.

The swimwear section was rather fascinating. Bashir grinned to himself, taking his time to enjoy the images. That definitely was the kind of fashion he could get behind and since Garak and Jabara seemed to be busy discussing hemlines, it wouldn't hurt to take a closer look, would it?

"That one would look quite flattering on you, my dear."

Garak had snuck up behind him, and was pointing at one of the more revealing swim trunks over Bashir's shoulder.

"Uh, I uhm …!"

Bashir started, then flushed a bright, scalding red at being caught.

"Maybe in a dark red or an indigo blue perhaps?" Garak continued, teasing.

"Very funny." Face burning, Bashir handed the PADD back to Jabara.

"Oh, good choice." Jabara inspected the still active page, doing nothing to hide her amusement. "But what about this one?"

She flicked a few pages forward, and pointed to a model wearing an even skimpier outfit that was revealing in a whole new different way. And sparkled.

"You do have exquisite taste, my dear," Garak congratulated her and they snickered in unison.

"Are you two done?"

Bashir rolled his eyes at them, folding his arms in front of his chest. But he had to admit that it was nice to see that not every Bajoran on the station was incapable of distinguishing between one person and the Occupation. Even if this little alliance was utterly at his expense.

"On that topic," Garak ignored him, addressing Jabara instead, "Your dress will be ready within ten days. Would you like me to send you a reminder?"

"Thanks. I'd appreciate that." Jabara gave Garak a polite little nod and put her PADD into her bag. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm meeting a friend for lunch. Goodbye Mr Garak, Doctor Bashir."

"Oh, and Doctor?"

Jabara turned back to him from the door, good humor in her voice.

"Yes?"

"I'd definitely go with indigo."

Bashir groaned; he didn't need his enhanced hearing to hear her burst into laughter outside the closed door.

Thinking that a change of topic was definitely in order Bashir raised an eyebrow at Garak.

"Talking about lunch, ready to go?"

"Just give me one moment, my dear." Garak nodded and gathered up several bolts of fabric. "I'll quickly put this away."

"Sure, take your time."

Bashir nodded, leaned against the display table and surreptitiously took in the state of the shop.

It had been a while since he'd actually been inside Garak's shop and what puzzled him was that Garak had not rearranged his wares as he had done frequently in the past. But for two missing items, which Bashir assumed had been sold, the inventory had stayed exactly the same, with even a thin layer of dust on the glass surfaces.

Bashir's eyes lingered on the door through which Garak had disappeared into the back of the shop. What was Garak so busy with and why didn't he just tell the computer to clean the room?

"Oh, Doctor," Garak's voice called out to him, muffled through the closed door. "Could you please give me a hand back here?"

"Yes, of course."

Bashir wiped the dust off his fingers, curious what secret spy equipment the Cardassian might keep in that room. Was Garak up to something? Was that why he had no time to keep up his cover as a tailor?

The backroom was dimly lit, much darker than the shop and he blinked when he stepped inside taking a moment to adjust his vision. This was positively exciting.

Before Bashir could ask what exactly Garak wanted help with, Garak spun him around with easy strength and pressed him against the wall. The heated kiss that followed was far more predictable.

Garak's fingers found his zipper and Bashir was halfway out of his jumpsuit before it even occurred to him to protest.

"Garak?"

Bashir gasped as Garak trailed biting, nipping kisses down the side of his neck, trying not to moan out loud. Not that he objected in general, but –

Garak looked up at him with a predatory smile, the pink tip of his tongue darting out between slightly parted lips.

"Uh, lunch?" Bashir objected then swallowed around the dryness in his mouth, suddenly not in the mood for food at all. He kept staring at Garak's lips.

"Are you hungry, Doctor?"

Garak's hand slid into Bashir's pants, and Bashir arched into the touch speech stolen from him as Garak's thumb caressed him through his underwear.

"Uhm–" Bashir bit his lip and sucked in a shuddering breath, then tilted his head back against the wall for support.

Pleasure quickly overrode all his concerns, dismissed all the reasons they shouldn't be doing this: that Garak hadn't locked the door, that this was a bad location, bad timing, and a bad idea altogether.

"What is that, my dear?"

Garak's fingers slid lower, cradling his balls, pressing teasingly at the sweet spot behind them.

"If you'd rather not I'd totally understand."

Garak's free hand closed around his neck, his thumb caressing Bashir's Adam's apple, the touch gentle with a tantalizing hint of danger.

"It is, after all, lunch time." Garak added.

The smile Garak gave him was infuriating, irritating and – Bashir swallowed – sexy as hell.

"Fuck lunch."

Bashir made up his mind and grasped Garak's head between his hands, wanting this to continue already, wanting reciprocate to give pleasure as well as receive it.

His thumb traced the thick ridges that ran from Garak's forehead down to his cheekbones, watching them flush and turn blue under his touch, before leaning down and kissing Garak passionately.

Garak returned the kiss just as desperately and impatiently pulled at Bashir's uniform turtleneck.

Bashir moaned at the cool, slick slide of Garak's fingers on his skin. Just as eager to get rid of it, he grasped the hem of his turtleneck and yanked it over his head, tossing it onto the floor beside them before reaching out and pulling Garak back against him, fumbling with his tunic.

Delighted that Garak seemed to have forgone the thick thermal undershirt he usually wore – even though the room was set to Federation Standard – Bashir reveled in the intensely erotic feel of scales against flesh, watching as Garak's ridges turned an even darker shade of blue under his touch.

For one fleeting moment – before Garak's fingers slipped into his underwear, carded through the dark curls of his pubic hair, and yes, touched him where he wanted it most – Bashir wondered if Garak had planned this or if he was simply getting used to the environmental settings.

Still kissing him, Garak grabbed a bolt of fabric from one of the shelves to his right, tossing it onto the floor in front of him before kneeling down.

Bashir's jumpsuit was pulled down to his knees, with his underwear soon to follow.

Garak's hands on his hips held him steady and the heat in Garak's eyes made Bashir swallow hard and draw in a breath and then gasp out loud when Garak's mouth closed around him, his slick, wet tongue deliciously tracing the thick vein protruding with arousal.

"Sisko to Doctor Bashir."

Both Garak and Bashir froze, Bashir's hands still pressed flat against the wall for support, Garak's mouth hot and wet around his cock.

Time seemed to slow to the speed of molasses and Bashir thought that he should do something, should move, reach for his combadge, push Garak away, something, anything –

"Sisko to Doctor Bashir. Can you hear me, Doctor?"

Sisko's voice pulled him out of his pleasure filled trance and dragged him into the present with the force of a bucket full of ice water. Face flaming, he frantically fumbled for his combadge, hidden somewhere in the folds of his jumpsuit, dangling past his knees.

When he finally found it he awkwardly activated it, then plucked it from the fabric with shaking fingers, bringing it up to his face.

"Yes, sir."

Bashir desperately tried to suppress his labored breathing.

Garak rocked back on his heels, watching him through half-lidded eyes and licked his lips.

Bashir had to look away, had to focus on the combadge in his hand not to give himself away.

"Is everything alright, Doctor?"

"Everything's fine, sir." Bashir coughed, playing for time all the while scrambling to find an explanation for the delay that did neither involve his pants around his ankles nor Garak's mouth around his dick.

"I'm uh – at Garak's trying on some new clothes."

Sisko seemed to buy his explanation; there was neither doubt, nor suspicion in his voice when he addressed Bashir again.

"Good, good." Sisko made a noncommittal noise then continued: "Dax brought back a new life form from her trip through the wormhole."

Garak's hand trailed up his leg, and Bashir tried to glare at him, unable to suppress the electric shiver that run down his spine at the touch and then Garak leaned in, close enough for Bashir to feel his breath on his still wet erection.

"Please join us in the conference room at fourteen-hundred hours for a briefing."

Garak's tongue tracked the underside of his cock, the cold air a sharp, erotic chill where seconds ago Garak's warm mouth had been.

"Yes, uh – sir. I'll – I will be there," Bashir choked out, mortification and desire twisting into a thrilling maelstrom of arousal.

Even through the pleasure laced embarrassment, Bashir could hear the soft click of the com-link being cut and he let out a relieved breath.

For a moment his hand closed tightly around the combadge then Garak reached up and took it out of his unresisting fingers, throwing it casually off to the side. It hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop in the middle of the room.

Without further preamble, Garak's mouth closed around Bashir's dick again, sucked him in all the way to the root and all the pent up heat and frustration of the last few minutes came to a wet-hot, desperate climax that had Bashir holding onto Garak's shoulders for support.

Bashir slid down the wall, trying to catch his breath.

Garak wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before pushing himself up from the floor with the other.

"Lunch, Doctor?" Garak brushed his hands off on his trousers before reaching to right his tunic.

"I don't think so." Bashir grinned and scrambled to his feet. He pushed Garak against the wall, lips brushing the fine scales on Garak's ear, voice low and promising. His hands fumbled with the fastenings to Garak's trousers.

"You said you needed a hand?"

-::-

Helping Dax put her laboratory back in order after the so dubbed sub-space seaweed had expanded and made a mess off the room, Bashir took the opportunity to surreptitiously transfer O'Brien's report on the EM activity blocking duonetic field onto his PADD. Information like that definitely would come in handy when –

"Now those are some interesting EM flux readings…" Jadzia poured over the data she'd called up on her console. "Julian, would you mind taking a look?"

"Of course, but EM flux expansion patterns are not really my area of expertise."

He stepped around a pile of debris and joined her at her workstation.

His eyes flitted over the screen, taking in the stream of raw data. He sucked in an excited breath when he realized what he was looking at. A proto-universe with an 83% chance of developing life with in the next 48 hours.

"Any idea?"

"The pattern looks familiar," Bashir hedged. "But I can't put my finger on why –"

"Computer: analyze EM flux expansion patterns."

Jadzia, palms flat against the surface, leaned onto the console as the computer worked.

"Oh my God, Julian!" Jadzia clasped her hand to her mouth then reached out and squeezed his shoulder, her voice shaking with excitement. "It's a proto-universe!"

"Really? That is amazing." Bashir let the excitement that had been bubbling in him out, grinning from ear to ear. Their own pet universe.

Being present at the birth of whole galaxies was an opportunity he just couldn't miss. It was exhilarating. He'd have to sneak back in after hours, in 7.4 hours to be precise, to run some scans himself before it inevitably had to be destroyed.

Bashir calculated the expansion rate. If it kept developing at his predicted rate it was bound to eventually not only destroy the station but obliterate this system and beyond.

Dax would surely figure that out in time, but right now she was giddy about the discovery and he didn't feel like ruining the mood by pointing her in that direction just yet.

"Look," Dax pulled up a different set of data on the screen. "It's already cooled enough to have formed clouds of subatomic particles."

"What are we going to do with it?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm going to scan those subatomic particles."

Dax grinned and configured the computer for a detailed, in-depth scan.

"Can I keep it?" Bashir quipped, still staring in awe at the containment field and the universe within. They really shouldn't be playing god but the idea of being able to study a forming universe was tantalizing.

Dax pointedly looked at the pile of debris on the floor.

"Only if you clean up after it."

-::-

"Doctor." Sisko greeted Bashir with a nod, then leaned against the doorframe taking in both Jadzia and Bashir and the mess the expanding universe had made of the laboratory.

"Commander."

Bashir acknowledged Sisko with a nod.

"How's it going, Old Man?" Sisko walked over to the where Jadzia was analyzing data and, his head moving up and down, taking in the graphs and numbers.

"Pretty good. I just started an in depth scan." She stepped aside giving him a better view of the screen.

"Nice." Sisko nodded. "Lunch?"

"Sure," Dax agreed easily. "The scan should take a couple of hours."

Three hours, twenty-seven minutes eighteen seconds and counting Bashir groused. He turned his back toward Sisko and Dax, facing the main console and adjusted minute details on Dax's already near perfect scan parameters, trying to look busy.

He was aware that he wasn't included in that lunch invitation and he would be damned if he made the same embarrassing mistake twice. He could be naïve sometimes but he wasn't stupid.

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds passed and Bashir tried to tune out Jadzia's excited chatter as she filled Sisko in on their recent discovery. Then they lapsed into silence. Bashir started stacking PADDs, sorting them by content.

Another forty-three seconds passed. He could feel their eyes on him, making the small hairs at the back of his neck stand up. After another twenty-nine excruciating seconds he was quickly running out of excuses not to turn around. Why weren't they leaving already?

"Doctor?" Sisko's voice cut through the silence and Bashir sighed, trying to get his emotions under control before turning around.

"Yes, sir?" Bashir managed to keep most of his resentment out of his voice.

"As much as I appreciate neatness–" Sisko gestured toward the PADDs Bashir had picked up. "Can't that wait until after lunch?"

"Sir?" Bashir blinked, not sure if he had heard correctly, his fingers tightening on the plastic casings, knuckles white with tension.

It would not do to misinterpret the situation. Had Sisko just really invited him to join them for lunch?

"Well, are you coming?" Jadzia jerked her head impatiently toward the corridor.

They were really asking him to join them for lunch. Sisko had meant that invitation, had even waited for him to finish. Bashir tossed the remaining PADDs he'd still been holding onto the console counter.

"Yes, sir."

Bashir was aware that he was grinning like an idiot but right now he couldn't care less.


	10. Chapter 10

-::-

"Computer: one red leaf tea, hot, and one regova egg stew," Garak addressed the replicator over the busy chatter of the lunch crowd.

"Recipe not on file."

Bashir and Garak looked at each other, puzzled. Why would the recipe not be on file? Garak frequently ordered this dish from the replimat.

"Computer: rokassa juice, hot," Garak tried again.

"Recipe not on file."

"That's strange."

Bashir put his hand gently on Garak's shoulder as he stepped up to the replicator wondering if it was malfunctioning in general.

"Let me try. Computer: Tarkalean tea, hot, extra sweet."

The cup materialized immediately and Bashir took it out, carefully taking a sip.

"How odd," Garak remarked, looking from the replicator to Bashir and back. "I wonder what happened?"

"I have no idea, but the re-materialization algorithm is finally working correctly."

Bashir took another sip. It was working 100% correctly. He frowned at his mug, lifting it to his nose, searching for even a minute mistake in the replication. He'd gotten so used to it being just the tiniest amount off that the correct flavor came as a bit of a shock. It had been a while.

"Maybe it was just a glitch. Try again with another dish," Bashir suggested.

Garak gave him a skeptical look but addressed the computer nevertheless, "Computer: one Zabu stew."

"Recipe not on file."

The queue behind them grew longer and more impatient. Someone close by made a nasty remark about Cardassians and Bashir turned to glare at the lunch queue in general. How was it Garak's fault that the replicator was malfunctioning?

"I'll have whatever you're having, my dear."

Garak briefly put his hand on Bashir's back, gently urging him back toward the replicator and Bashir flashed him an apologetic smile. Garak was right: it wasn't worth starting a fight. Besides, their odds of winning were abysmal.

"Uhm." Bashir stared at the touch screen, frantically trying to come up with something that Garak would at least find edible. He'd originally planned on just having a sandwich and maybe some chips, but Garak preferred hot meals.

Mentally going through the list of dishes he thought Garak might enjoy trying, Bashir pressed the key combination meant for Cardassian consumption, about to order chicken tikka masala when –

"Setting not available."

"How odd."

Bashir scowled at the replicator and regretted having tried the tea. There was only a 0.005% chance that this was a coincidence. With the station as crowded as it was these days he'd rather not deal with the fallout of another Resistance virus.

Bashir squared his shoulders, and pulled himself up to his full height before he turned and addressed the people waiting.

"If I could have your attention, please."

He had to raise his voice and repeat himself before everyone quieted down enough him to make himself heard.

"There seems to be a replicator malfunction. Some of the species-compatibility options seem to be offline."

A groan went through the crowd and Bashir tried not to fidget under their half curious, half hostile stares. Bashir steeled himself for his next announcement. He cleared his throat nervously.

"I have informed engineering, but I'm afraid for the time being the replicators are out of order."

-::-

"Well, that was pleasant."

Bashir shoved his tray on to their table, resisting the urge to slam it.

It was unbelievable how many people had gotten irrationally angry over a few minutes delay. It wasn't as if it had taken engineering long to send someone to take a look and confirm that even though the Cardassian setting was offline – it was down for maintenance reasons and would be up again soon – the replicators were otherwise working perfectly. Next time he'd just let them order their incompatible food, see if he cared.

"I see our dear Constable has made it here in time." Garak scooted his chair closer to the table, and unfolded his napkin with a snap of his wrist. "How fortunate."

"Indeed."

Bashir grimaced. He too had noticed Odo, who stood arms crossed in front of his chest at the far end of the replimat.

Odo held his gaze for a moment and Bashir got the distinct impression that the Chief of Security blamed him for this mess.

He glared back. He couldn't well have let people use a faulty replicator, could he now?

Garak picked at his food, very obviously trying to at least pretend to enjoy the meal, but Bashir was not fooled. He'd learned to read the Cardassian way too well over the last year.

"Not to your liking?"

Bashir took a bite of his own broccoli and beef stir-fry and pulled a face. It was – not something he'd order but he'd chosen it since it was one of the few options that would not end with Garak in the infirmary.

"You can tell me, I won't be offended."

Bashir bravely took another bite.

"I don't mean to be ungrateful, my dear."

Garak gave a sincere smile that had Bashir grin back, feeling warm inside.

"But it is a bit–" Garak hedged and poked at a piece of broccoli on his plate.

"... bland," Bashir supplied. It really was. "And none taken, but I am afraid until the replicators are fixed, your options are limited."

Bashir pressed his knee against Garak's, trying to convey sympathy.

While humans had no major incompatibilities with Cardassian food, the same could not be said the other way around. The Cardassian digestive system did not deal well with dairy, the majority of grains, nightshades or most forms of Terran protein.

"I suppose there is no Terran equivalent of yamok sauce?" Garak gave Bashir a hopeful look.

"None that you'd be able to eat, I'm sorry." Bashir made an apologetic face, relieved that Garak didn't look too upset.

"I'm confident Chief O'Brien will have the settings up again in no time." Garak took another bite of his lunch.

"Let's hope he doesn't decide to replicate you field rations in the mean time," Bashir joked, trying to lighten the mood, but he made a mental note to collate a list of dishes for Garak, so he could at least have dinner.

-::-

"Cry in my synthale?"

Bashir fixed the Ferengi with a glare and leaned onto the counter top, exasperated. He hadn't 'cried into his synthale' over Jadzia in quite a while, thank you so very much.

"You heard that?"

Quark looked impressed but kept polishing his glass.

Bashir cursed inwardly. Damn, he shouldn't have been able to, not over the hubbub in the bar nor from that distance.

"Don't change the topic, Quark," Bashir evaded the question.

Quark pushed a bowl toward Bashir.

"Try the sandpeas. They're hasperat flavored."

"Uh, thanks."

Bashir stared at the roasted greenish-yellow peas, hasperat flavoring dusting them orange. They looked and smelled strangely appetizing, if one didn't know better.

"Don't take it personally, Doctor." Quark patted him on the arm. "I was just winding him up a bit."

"Who? Arjin?" Bashir grinned at that, pushing the infernal snack off to the side. "He's a bit of a stick in the mud, isn't he?"

"Is that a human saying?"

Quark prepared a stardrifter and put it on a tray, gesturing for one of the waiters to deliver it.

"It means he's no fun," Bashir explained, realizing that pretty much everything on Ferenginar would be a literal stick in the mud due to its climate.

"What did she do?" He leaned closer, curious what Jadzia of all people could have done to give anyone a nervous breakdown. "When I talked to him on the transport, he seemed terrified of her."

"He kept yammering on about how Dax likes to break Candidates," Quark said, reaching for a new glass to polish.

He didn't sound impressed and Bashir had to agree. Jadzia was one of the kindest people he knew.

"If you'll excuse me…"

Quark walked over to where Morn was sitting and refilled his drink.

Bashir looked around the bar, but for a few newcomers, passing through merchants and research teams headed toward the Gamma-Quadrant, it was the usual crowd. One of the Dabo players was cheating, using some kind of gravity-emitter and Bashir briefly considered pointing that out to Quark but then shrugged. They'd notice sooner, rather than later.

"Try the sandpeas, Doctor."

"Huh?" Bashir turned back around, more interested in the latest gossip then Dabo. "No, thank you."

Quark proffered the bowl again anyway, shaking it a little as an invitation.

Bashir made a face. There was no amount of flavoring that would make the bloody things more appealing to him.

"Arjin told me the same thing on the transport. Claimed that Dax had personally rejected fifty-seven candidates."

"I find that hard to believe, but –"

They both simultaneously looked over to the other end of the bar where Arjin was sullenly nursing his drink.

"It doesn't seem to take much, does it?" Quark continued his observation and Bashir nodded along. It seemed it really didn't.

Bashir watched Arjin reach for his glass, miss and try again. The clumsiness of his movements put him at roughly 0.4 promille, which would push most Trill, and specifically someone like Arjin whom he suspected not to be much of a drinker, firmly into intoxicated. Especially if he finished his –

"Is that Romulan ale, Quark?" Bashir exclaimed, exasperated.

"But of course not, Doctor." Quark gave a token protest, "That would be illegal."

Of course it was Romulan ale, Bashir was 92% certain. The unmistakable color and viscosity rather gave it away. Not that he particularly cared about the legality of it all, but Romulan ale was strong.

"A bit of friendly advice: you might want to switch him to synthale." Bashir jerked his chin toward Arjin. "Unless you want to clean up what is so _clearly_ not Romulan ale after he throws up his feelings all over the bar."

"Point taken, Doctor."

Quark made a disgusted face then rubbed his earlobe.

"You're going to keep charging him for the ale aren't you?" Bashir rolled his eyes at Quark. Wasn't it extremely exhausting chasing profit like that?

"I don't sell Romulan ale, Doctor." Quark grinned. "That would be–"

"Illegal," Bashir finished the sentence for him.

"Exactly." Quark pulled out a small box from under the counter and pushed it over to Bashir.

"I thought you might like to give this a go."

"What is it?" Bashir picked it up, turning it this way and that.

"Oh, just some new locking mechanism my idiot brother came up with. He claims it's unpickable."

"Did he say what kind of lock?" Bashir perked up at that. He liked a challenge.

"Some kind of tripartite microseal." Quark grinned in a way that rang more than one alarm bell.

"This better not be stolen or otherwise illegal." Bashir tapped his index finger at the box.

"Doctor, you wound me." Quark pulled the box back over to his side of the counter. "But if you're not up to the challenge…"

"I never said that –" Bashir grinned and made a grab for the lock. "Any kind of hint?"

"So, a glass of synthale, Doctor?" Quark gave him a toothy smile, ignoring the question.

"No."

Bashir frowned. He'd actually considered ordering a synthale but there was no way he would do so now. Not after Quark's quip about him crying over Jadzia.

"Do you have a bottle of Lacorian kanar?" he asked, instead.

One of the Cardassian poets, Alket of Delran, had been really fond of it, praising its virtues and fine aroma in several of his poems.

"Lacorian kanar? I didn't know you were such a connoisseur, Doctor."

Quark's grin got even toothier, implying a sizable profit coming his way.

"It sure is a fine variety of kanar." Quark rubbed his earlobe in thought. "Oh, though it is hard to come by these days."

"But not for someone as _well connected_ as you, I'm sure." Bashir laughed willing to play along. At least for a bit.

"You know, for you I think I might just have one bottle stashed away somewhere."

Quark tapped his nose conspiratorially then turned away and disappeared into the small backroom behind the bar. He returned a short while later with an ornate but dusty bottle, wiping it clean with his sleeve.

"You are one lucky man, Doctor."

The liquid didn't even slosh when Quark put it down on the countertop.

"Do you want me to heat it up for you?"

"Uh, thanks," Bashir muttered, suddenly afraid what exactly he'd just ordered. Well, hopefully Garak would enjoy it.

"Here, have some sandpeas." Quark offered with a genial smile.

The bowl was pushed in front of Bashir again.

"Just the kanar, Quark!" Bashir sighed, fixing Quark with an annoyed stare. What was it with those sandpeas?

"And two glasses, please."

"But of course." Quark gestured toward Garak entering the bar. "I'll bring it to your usual table."

Bashir nodded and Quark shoved the bowl of sandpeas into Bashir's hands.

"On the house."

-::-

"Computer: end _Bashir personal log_."

Bashir glanced over to the porthole. He'd just enough time to replicate himself a cup of tea before the wormhole was going to flare into life in 3.24 minutes, assuming that the Ferengi trade vessel was on schedule.

One day – he was 37.2% certain – he'd have to barter his way on board of one of them. Bashir wrapped his fingers around his mug and sat down on the window seat, enjoying the brilliant spectacle of blues and purples as the wormhole swirled into existence.

Today was not that day. Today had been good.

He'd spent a quiet, productive afternoon working on his biomolecular replication research project. It was a bit of a vanity project, but he enjoyed using his abilities to their full once in a while. The one draw back, though, was that he couldn't really publish, at least not yet. He'd have to wait another decade, at least. His work was too advanced, too revolutionary. It would cause too much attention.

But at least he could show Jadzia. He'd had to ask her permission to use some of the lab equipment and the project had interested her. Bashir smiled at the thought. She'd be able to appreciate what he'd achieved and not only that, she was one of the few people he knew who could even begin to understand what he'd accomplished.

Bashir took another sip of his tea, satisfied with himself. If his calculations were correct – and they usually were – he'd succeeded in not only replicating a functioning human heart but also at keeping it beating for a solid six months without the cellular structure deteriorating. One more month and he'd beat the infamous Walker-Brown axiom, creating the first stable replicated heart.

It truly was a break-through in biomolecular replication.

-::-

"… and she even insisted that I redo the scan with her watching. Can you believe it?"

"Oh, absolutely, but –" Garak stopped mid sentence and reached up to massage his temple.

"Are you alright?" Bashir looked questioningly at his friend, but Garak shook his head.

"I am perfectly fine, my dear. Do go on."

"Well, she made such a fuss I had to call in Nurse Jabara to confirm that she indeed had a cold and was not, in fact pregnant at all. I mean I sympathize with her wish to start a family and Bajoran pregnancies are actually quite fascinating –"

Garak drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his face crunched up in pain.

"Garak?" Bashir noted with worry how Garak's ridges quickly drained of color and the sudden dilation of his pupils.

"It's nothing, just a bit of a headache," Garak ground out, trying to smile. His hand reached up to pinch the ridges right above his eyes. "I had the most unpleasant customer this morning."

"That doesn't look like nothing,"

Bashir frowned then leaned closer, gently prying Garak's hand from his face, inspecting Garak's pupils, noting the unusual clamminess of his skin.

He was also rather certain Garak was lying. Garak didn't have customers, unless... If he was making deals with the Klingons again, or similarly unsavory characters, well, that would definitely explain the _unpleasant_ part.

"Do you want me to take a look? We could quickly drop by the infirmary–"

"No, that's quite alright, my dear." Garak gave him a blinding smile that nevertheless had an edge to it.

"It won't take long," Bashir prodded, sadly aware that he'd not win this battle.

"My dear, that is really unnecessary." Garak pulled his hand away under the pretense of picking up his cutlery, but then changed his mind and pushed his half-eaten plate away.

Bashir ground his teeth. Garak was really being impossible. He wondered what it would take to get the Cardassian to agree to a check-up. Nothing short of beaming him there with a full security team with phasers at the ready, that was certain.

"Do you get these headaches often?"

Bashir held Garak's gaze, not wanting to let this go.

"I assure you, my dear, I am perfectly fine."

Garak's face relaxed visibly and he stopped massaging his temple.

"Garak! Your health is not a trivial matter."

Bashir pinned Garak with his best disapproving medical professional stare and counted to ten under his breath.

To no avail. Garak didn't budge. Instead he untugged his napkin from his collar with infuriating calm, neatly folded it and deposited it next to his plate.

Bashir drummed his fingers on the table, annoyed at Garak's stubbornness.

"Your worry my dear doctor, while appreciated, is quite unneeded."

Garak's smile was back to its normal radiance and Bashir felt the full force of his charm, willing down a blush at being its sole focus.

"I assure you, I am fine–" Garak's fingers briefly covered Bashir's knuckles, stilling them and Bashir felt an electric shiver run down his spine under the touch.

"– and all the better for the company."

When Garak finally let go – it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, three point five his unhelpful brain supplied – Bashir felt light-headed and breathless. He wet his suddenly dry lips.

"I still think that you –"

Bashir gave in with a sigh and a shake of his head. There was nothing he could do anyway. If Garak had been Starfleet he'd just order him to the infirmary for a physical, but since he couldn't do that to civilians he'd have to rely on Garak's common sense to come and seek medical attention if necessary. He really hoped Garak trusted him enough to come and see him should anything be seriously wrong.

"And on that note, my dear," Garak ignored his concern and continued to smile at him. "If you're still free, I've picked out just the holo-setting for us."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Bashir returned his smile, actually excited to go. "Where are we going?"

"The Imperial ruins in Fanehr City."

"That sounds wonderful." Bashir rested his chin on his hands. "What's it like?"

"Fanehr is a quaint little coastal town with the most picturesque ruins," Garak explained. "I am also quite certain that the climate will be much more to your liking."

"Cooler?"

Garak nodded and Bashir had to admit that he appreciated that. The Regent's garden had been stunning but –

"A fair bit. I do so hope you're not planning on wearing that dreadful t-shirt again." Garak made a long-suffering face.

"Actually, I was."

Bashir tried to keep a straight face. He quite enjoyed winding Garak up with his fashion choices.

"Why don't you come by my shop beforehand? I am sure I can provide you with something much less eye-searing."

"That's very considerate of you." Bashir snorted then reached up to massage the back of his neck. "I have to admit a relaxing day at the seaside sounds amazing."

"You've been working hard, my dear. You deserve a bit of relaxation."

"We both do," Bashir agreed then his expression turned sly. "You know there are many well proven ways to relieve stress. A relaxing massage, perhaps?"

And maybe he could sneak a scanner in and while Garak was distracted –

Bashir watched Garak's ridges flush with color, and taking that as approval, continued: "I've heard they work wonders against stress."

"Are you offering, my dear," Garak's voice was low, promising. He pressed his knee against Bashir's making it clear that he was very aware of what kind of massage Bashir had in mind.

"I am," Bashir lowered his voice, confidentially. "I have it from very reliable sources that I am quite good at _massages_."

"Oh, I don't doubt that but –"

Garak reached for Bashir's plate, stacking it on top of his.

"We should most certainly discuss this further _in private_. Raktajino, my dear?"

Garak started to scoot his chair back but Bashir was faster.

"Let me. It's my turn to choose dessert, anyway."

Bashir reached over and squeezed Garak's shoulder when he got up. He held onto it for as long as he dared, it wouldn't do for anyone to interpret this as anything but friendship.

Waiting in line for his turn at the replicator, Bashir kept glancing over to Garak. At least the species setting where back online – engineering had been quick about that at least – if not the Cardassian recipes themselves, allowing for a much wider range of options.

That sudden headache Garak had suffered, though, was making Bashir worry. How often did he get those and was Garak still using whatever it was Bashir had seen him apply at Quarks? He'd have to talk to Garak about it later. Self-administering medicine was only a last resort and especially unnecessary when one was friends with the resident CMO.

He'd just taken their tray out of the replicator when a child laughed nearby, drawing Bashir's attention.

Two tables down from Garak a Bajoran family was sitting, the adults chatting merrily over dessert while a girl of about three played with a brightly colored ball at their feet.

The ball bounced and the kid pulled herself up and toddled after the escaping toy, not fast enough to keep up.

The ball bounced toward their table and Garak reached out and caught it before it could roll further. He held it out for the girl to retrieve.

The little girl stopped, eyes on her toy, then came cautiously closer, studying Garak with wide-eyed suspicion, clearly torn between fear and wanting her toy back.

The toy won and she inched closer then grabbed it, clutching it to her chest as she backed away then, at a safe distance, turned around and smiled at Garak.

"Thank you."

Bashir smiled to himself then nearly dropped the tray he was carrying.

"Ressa, no!" Her mother's shriek caught Bashir by surprise. She swooped down on the child, chair falling over backward in her haste. She and picked the girl up, cuddling her close.

"That was a stupid, stupid thing to do, Ressa. What did I tell you about Cardassians?"  
she admonished her daughter while dragging her back to the assumed safety of their table, abject horror on her face.

Bashir cringed under the collective glare directed toward Garak. Intellectually he understood where her reaction was coming from and that is was, given the recent past, to a certain degree justified, but –

Bashir slid the tray with their coffee and the scones he'd replicated on a whim, on to the table, suddenly not in the mood for dessert anymore.

– but part of him wondered if – when – he'd end up in a similar position: feared by strangers not for something he had done but for what he could not help being.

-::-

"Our engineering team has received your inquiry –"

Bashir glared at the automated reply he'd gotten as an answer to his inquiry about what had happened to the Cardassian recipes in the replimat.

Today had been the second day Garak hadn't even bothered asking the replicator for a Cardassian dish. The resigned look on his face had twisted something in Bashir. It just wasn't right.

"– and we will look into the matter as soon as possible."

Bashir felt a surge of indignant outrage on his friend's behalf. Was it really too much to ask to put at least a few Cardassian recipes back into the database?

He'd talk to O'Brien again after his shift.

-::-

"Monthly reports?" Bashir peered over O'Brien's shoulder, commiserating. He had a similar stack of PADDs waiting on his desk.

"Doctor Bashir?" O'Brien looked up from his console.

"There's a –" 'typo in the third sentence' Bashir was about to point out when O'Brien interrupted him.

"And what can I do for you, sir?" his tone rang with annoyance, making it clear just how welcome Bashir was.

Right. Bashir cursed himself. Why did he even bother?

"Are you aware that some of the replicator functions are missing, Chief?"

"Again?" O'Brien sighed. "What's wrong with them now?"

"The Cardassian recipes are missing," Bashir continued, discarding any pretense at small talk.

"Oh, that." O'Brien ran a hand through his hair, looking relieved. "We had to strip out all the Cardassian code to fix the subroutines."

"And when can we expect the recipes to be back online?" Bashir barely managed to keep his annoyance out of his voice. That was the reason? Any Ensign could easily re-upload those recipes. All it would take was a little coding knowledge –

"Have you put in a request, sir?" O'Brien's eyes flicked over to the stack of PADDs on his console.

"Yes, I have and I understand that you are a very busy man, Chief," Bashir tried be reasonable about the whole issue, "but it's been nearly three weeks, surely by now –"

"Doctor." O'Brien took a deep breath, very obviously counting under his breath. "The Cardassian coding clashes with Federation standard. There is no way, unless someone recodes every single da– every single recipe, sir, for them to be implemented."

"Well, is someone working on that?"

"Sir, we've barely finished repairing the damage Lieutenant Dax's universe caused on the station. Cardassian dishes are not high on our priority list."

"And what is Garak going to eat?" Bashir tried again, wondering if he just hadn't explained the main problem properly.

"Garak? I don't –" O'Brien all but slammed the PADD he'd picked up down on the console. He took a deep breath before he continued. "Doctor, the species settings are fully functional. I'm sure he'll figure something out."

O'Brien pulled a new PADD from the top of the pile and flipped it on – briefly scanning the contents – before looking back up to Bashir.

"Is there anything _else_ I can help you with, sir?"

"No, thank you."

Taking the brush off for the one it was, Bashir stalked off without another word. He'd hoped that the Chief would be a little more sympathetic to the situation, considering how he had complained about eating nothing but T'Lani food for weeks. Well, if the Chief engineer was not going to help him, or order anyone of his staff to do so, then he'd just recode the recipes himself. It wasn't as if that was hard, just tedious.

O'Brien's explanation had made sense, even if it annoyed him. The reason the replicator re-materialization algorithms had kept slipping out of alignment was that the Cardassian recipe codes kept clashing with the underlying Federation system routines.

The recipes had to be recoded and if O'Brien wasn't going to help, well – Bashir hoped that Felix would not mind if he borrowed his coding style and certification to cover his tracks.

-::-

Bashir hit the ball with an elegant backhand, and it bounced of the back wall, hit the target on the roof, bounced off the floor to the left and came back to him at the expected 30° angle. It was utterly, predictably boring.

The door opened unexpectedly and Bashir frowned when he saw Chief O'Brien enter, towel slung over his shoulder, racquet under his arm and sports bottle in hand. What was O'Brien doing here? He should be on shift for at least another half hour; Bashir had made it a point to check the duty roster to avoid, well exactly this.

Annoyed at the premature end of his workout he hit the ball one last time. He could go rent one of Quark's holosuites and play using his holo-allotment, but he'd rather spend that on visiting Venice with Garak.

"Chief O'Brien?"

Bashir turned toward him, catching the ball in his left hand without looking.

"Doctor? I didn't expect –" O'Brien nodded at him, expression leery.

"I'll be off then. This is your court, after all."

Bashir gave O'Brien a tight nod, then turned and threw his racquet into his gym bag. He picked up his towel and wiped the sweat off his face before draping it over his neck.

He was halfway to the door when he heard O'Brien call out to him.

"Julian, wait."

"Yes, Chief?"

He didn't trust himself to turn around, not just yet. That the Chief kept on calling him Julian annoyed Bashir. It was such an unnecessary pretense.

"How about a friendly game?"

That did make Bashir turn, unable to keep his exasperation from his face. He was about to counter with a snide 'why', but then changed his mind. If he went back to using the holo-suites for exercise he'd have to cut down on the time he spent there with Garak or on his holonovels. He'd started using the racquetball court instead for a reason and as long as he didn't forget that he and O'Brien had nothing in common but liking racquetball, what was the harm?

"Are you sure about this?" Bashir couldn't stop himself from asking, gauging O'Brien's expression, still not 100% convinced that this was a good idea. This better not be some kind elaborate joke at his expense.

"Just go easy on me." O'Brien gave him a sheepish grin. "I'm not as fit as I used to be."

"As you say, Chief." He tossed the ball over to O'Brien. "You serve."

At least this time, he was past caring about O'Brien's feelings. He could always walk out.

-::-

Bashir left the infirmary satisfied with his work. He couldn't even begrudge the late hour he'd been called in off-duty for a consultation. It wasn't his staff's fault that they weren't that familiar with Vulcan physiognomy, yet. After all he was the station's CMO and he'd rather they'd call him in than go ahead with a potentially disastrous treatment.

Quark's was just halfway down the promenade from the infirmary and walking past he heard a familiar voice call his name. He turned, searching the room for Dax, to find her a few tables away having drinks with Major Kira and O'Brien.

"Julian!" Jadzia waved at him and he smiled at her in acknowledgement, deciding that it would be rude to not at least say hallo.

"Jadzia, Chief, Major." He gave each of them a nod.

"What are you doing out so late," Jadzia teased. "Hot date?"

"Sadly not, I got called in for a consultation."

Jadzia pulled over a chair from the table next to them.

"Why don't you join us for a drink?" She smiled, patting the seat. "Looks like you've earned it."

He was about to agree when he noticed that neither Kira nor O'Brien had agreed or were meeting his eyes. They were, in fact, intently staring at their drinks.

Bashir raked a hand through his hair, fighting the sense of déjà vu. He pretended to yawn, clasping his hands behind his head, stretching.

"Another time perhaps, I'm a bit tired."

"Next week, then?" Dax suggested and Bashir smiled at that.

"Most definitely, besides –" He gave her an innocent look that bordered on the sly. "Has Quark ever told you why exactly he came to own a bar here?"

"No, actually he hasn't." Jadzia looked up at him, curiosity plain on her face. "Come on, Julian. Do tell!"

"I am feeling rather tired." Bashir yawned again, this time he didn't even have to fake it.

"Julian!"

"I really should get going." Bashir winked at Dax. "Good night, Jadzia. Major, Chief."

"Don't let us keep you from your rest." O'Brien said a bit too cheerful for Bashir's taste and he turned on his heel, trying hard not to ball his hands to fists – clasping them behind is back instead – as he walked away.

"That wasn't very nice."

Bashir heard Dax gently rebuke her friends and cringed, cursing his enhanced hearing.

Kira snorted and Bashir didn't need to turn around to imagine her expression as she went on: "He'd have an easier time making friends if he stopped being all cozy with that Cardassian. Just saying."

"You weren't exactly going out of your way to be welcoming–"

"Don't look at me like that," O'Brien shot back. "I played racquetball with him earlier."

Bashir pressed his lips together in annoyance and sped up. The last thing he needed was Jadzia's pity and he didn't just spend time with Garak because he was lonely. Thank you so very much. He genuinely liked the Cardassian.

-::-

Bashir fluffed his pillow, stuffing it behind his back and reached for his PADD. He'd been meaning to read the book Garak had given him for a while but something had always come up.

He tapped the screen, opening 'The Neverending Sacrifice' and began to read.

> _In the beginning there was the State._
> 
> _Cardassia rose over Prime and the State awoke._
> 
> _Gul Pratal was sitting at the window, his granddaughter on his knees._
> 
> _"And …" he prompted._
> 
> _"And, and…" The little girl worried her lip and then, suddenly, as recollection of the oath bubbled to the surface, continued with proud confidence. "… and the family. But before them all comes the duty to the State. For I am a true daughter of Cardassia and the State is everything."_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 

"That's a phaser burn, Quark. How did you get that?"

Bashir flicked the medical case open, taking out a tricorder. To the naked eye the burn looked to be second degree and a couple of hours old.

"I got shot."

"Very funny," Bashir huffed at Quark's predictable obstinate answer then turned on the tricorder, running it up and down the Ferengi's chest. He'd been right; 3.25 hours.

"You should have come earlier, this might leave a scar." Bashir put the tricorder away and walked over to the cabinet that held the hyposprays. He took out the triptacedrine, adjusting the dose on his way back.

"Did your brother try to murder you again?" Bashir haphazard a guess, a guess based on a not insignificant 38% chance. It wasn't as if it was the first time.

"Rom? That idiot? Doctor, please!" Quark rolled his eyes, exasperated but tilted his head to the side to give Bashir better access for the hypospray. "He couldn't hit an airlock if he stood right in front of it."

"Who shot you, Quark? I'll have to report that," Bashir snapped and turned toward Garak, hypospray still in hand, pointing it accusingly. "Please don't tell me you did?"

"Me? Really, my dear, why would I shoot an upright citizen like our dear bartender –"

"Then why are you even here?" Bashir snorted at the predictable obfuscation, charmed by Garak's put-on innocence, even though he knew he should be annoyed.

"Why, to see you, of course –" Garak explained and Bashir caught himself staring just a moment too long into Garak’s eyes, caught up in the warm glow of Garak's smile. "I was wondering if you'd join me for a drink after your shift."

"Really?" Bashir's breath hitched in his chest and he smiled back, feeling a little bit like a teenager with butterflies in his stomach. "I definitely could use one after –"

"He didn't shoot me," Quark interjected with an annoyed huff and both Bashir and Garak turned back to him. "Natima shot me."

Quark's fingertips wistfully traced the edge of the phaser burn.

"Why?" _Of course she did._ Bashir sighed. This just had to be about the most high profile visitor on the station. Why did these things have to happen while he was on duty?

"Lover's quarrel."

"Quark!" Bashir snapped, then took a deep breath to calm himself. The emotional whiplash between Quark's obstinacy and Garak's distracting presence was starting to give him a headache and certainly did nothing for his temper. "I'm about done playing twenty questions. Why did she shoot you?" Bashir loomed over the Ferengi, out of patience.

"She needed the cloaking device to get away." Quark glared up at Bashir, his tone matching Bashir's. "Because _your people_ sold her out to the Central Command."

Bashir narrowed his eyes and was about to indignantly insist that the Federation would never when –

"What?" Quark refused to back down. "It's the truth."

Bashir looked away first, frowning at the dermal regenerator. It vexed him that the Ferengi had a point. The Federation should not agree to deals like that.

Then he put two and two together.

"I take it Professor Lang and her students are no longer on this station?" Bashir sighed, stating the obvious.

The silence that met him was telling.

"I'm going to call security." Bashir put the dermal regenerator down, his hand halfway to his combadge when Garak cleared his throat.

"My dear Doctor, there really is no need to –" Garak started but Bashir cut him off.

"Enough!" Bashir folded his arms in front of his chest, glaring at both Garak and Quark. "Give me _one_ good reason not to."

"But of course, Doctor –" Garak started when Bashir interrupted him again.

"No, not you." Bashir rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No offense, Garak but I want to hear this from Quark."

"Why Doctor, don't you trust me?"

Bashir snorted, not bothering with a response, refusing to find Garak's act of wounded pride endearing.

"I'm waiting, Quark." Bashir tapped his foot impatiently.

"I managed to convince Odo to let them go."

"You convinced Odo to do what?" Bashir gaped at him, disbelief and exasperation clear in his voice. "Are you serious?"

Quark petulantly raised his chin at Bashir. "If you don't believe me, go ahead and ask him."

"Don't think I won't," Bashir huffed then sighed. "And then?"

"And then nothing." Quark's eyes briefly, suspiciously flicked over to Garak before he continued. "I gave her the cloaking device and by now they should be Nagus-knows where."

"And now that that's settled, I think we can all agree that Quark has been here all night," Garak cheerfully interjected. He picked up the spare hypospray from the counter, inspecting it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Has he?" Bashir challenged. If they were telling the truth – a big if that he would check on after his shift – the one who was going to take the legal fall for this was Odo, but Quark – he could not see this ending well for the Ferengi. Especially once the Bajoran public found out. Bashir shrugged. There was no real harm in _accidentally_ forgetting to fill in the report until tomorrow, after he'd verified Quark's story.

A sly, deeply denied part of Bashir's mind – the necessity of even contemplating such an action made him feel ashamed and dirty – suggested that having the Ferengi owe him a favor was a good investment in the future. You could call Quark many things, but he did understand quid pro quo.

"Fine, let's pretend I believe you for the time being." Bashir turned to face Garak and snatched the hypospray Garak had been fiddling with out of his hand. "That leaves the question of what your part in this is."

"Me?" Garak held up his hands in mock surrender, his expression a mask of perfect innocence. "I just happened to be a concerned bystander."

"Concerned bystander? Right." Bashir sucked the air in through clenched teeth and counted to ten under his breath. What Bajoran deity had he offended to deserve Quark and Garak teaming up on him?

He felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Odo. It did, in part, explain the Chief of Security's cheerful disposition.

At least his shift was over soon and he definitely was going to need that drink Garak had suggested earlier. Garak had some explaining to do and while Bashir was aware that he’d at best get a very twisted, upside down Garak version of the story, if nothing else it would be entertaining.

-::-

"Computer: load mail. Sort by date."

Bashir dejectedly stared at four days worth of backlog of mail.  
Due to a minor power flux in the docking clamps the station's system had reverted back to Cardassian standard and had caused all mail, without exception, to end up in Sisko's account.

O'Brien had reassured everyone at today's meeting that the problem was finally fixed and while that was generally a good thing, Bashir resented the free time he'd now have to spend catching up. He'd only just started re-coding his second Cardassian recipe and had hoped to work on some more tonight.

And then there was the issue of the monthly letter from his mother. Stalling for a little longer he got up and replicated himself a fresh cup of tea. He'd been putting off going through his mail since this morning, knowing that her letter was waiting for him in his inbox.

And while the mental image of Dukat micromanaging everyone's mail was amusing – Bashir snickered to himself – and fitting in a paranoid, dystopian way, Sisko had been less than amused.

Bashir ran a resigned hand through his hair and pulled out the chair to his console. He pushed his steaming cup to the side and sighed again knowing that he was running out of excuses, that he'd have to face the inevitable.

Yes, there it was: the monthly update on just how _amazingly_ well his father's park design business was doing, peppered with thinly veiled digs about his career and how he was throwing his life away and – of course – an unasked update on Palis' life.

Bashir composed a three-sentence reply and closed the file. He didn't need this. It was predictably boring and just as predictably infuriating at the same time.

He skipped a couple of work related files, marking them to read in the office tomorrow morning, then opened a letter from Felix.

It contained the scaffolding of his newest game, asking Bashir to take a quick look at the code. Bashir took a sip of his tea, cradling his mug, already in a much better mood.

-::-

"Computer: two deck chairs." Garak commanded the computer as soon as they entered the holosuite.

Fanehr beach was gravelly, volcanic with sharp-edged pebbles that glinted in the sun, radiating heat from below. Bashir tugged at his new shirt – Enaran cotton, Garak had insisted – already sticking to his skin and quickly dismissed the idea of taking off his sandals.

They had entered Cardassia in a small cove that Garak claimed was a popular holiday destination and Bashir could see why. The view was stunning.

Steep cliffs framed the half-moon shaped beach, pillars of black pumice rising above crystal clear, emerald green water, colonized by sleek marine lizards. Fanehr City's skyscrapers stretched out along the coastline, a row of grey silhouettes, partially concealed by haze, barely visible on this bright, sunny day, giving the illusion of undisturbed wilderness.

The historic village Garak had promised they'd explore later lay half-hidden behind massive obsidian dunes. The few flat-roofed houses Bashir could see from the beach seemed to be built from local red pumice and clustered around a transportation hub.

Bashir sat down as soon as the brightly colored deck chair materialized, grateful for Garak's foresight.

“Ready?” Garak inquired and Bashir nodded, bracing himself for the punch to his senses that he knew from experience Cardassia’s gravity would inflict upon him.

And while it didn’t hit him as unprepared as it had the last time, the sudden change was still far from pleasant. If one could call being suddenly submerged in hot, heavy syrup that made breathing hard and moving even harder, even remotely pleasant. At least – Bashir thought as he settled deeper into his chair – the coast wasn't as hot, or nearly as humid as the Regent's Garden.

Bashir trained his eyes on the ocean and focused on breathing in and out, deep and steady, waiting for his body to adjust. The soft, afternoon breeze blowing in from the sea was balmy, and Bashir spared a thought of thanks to whoever had programmed this in.

The ocean looked calm, serene in its non-earthly shade of green. Belying the roar in the air, the waves rolled gently onto the shore, making the water look pleasant and inviting and Bashir thought that he wouldn't mind a quick swim later on.

Feeling better already Bashir folded his arms behind his head and turned his face into the sun. Further down the beach – to both sides – Bashir could make out the white foam crests of strong breakers hitting the rocks and realized that what faced them was not calm water at all, but instead the deceptive, deadly calm of a massive rip-current.

For a moment disappointed that the danger of getting dragged out into the ocean would make anything but ankle deep wading impossible, Bashir reminded himself that this was but a program. Here the holo-safeties would prevent that and protect them from drowning.

Garak gently touched his arm pulling Bashir out of his reverie. "Iced tea?"

"Uh, yes. Thanks." Bashir rubbed a hand over his face and took the glass. He hadn't even heard Garak ordering it. Breathing shallowly – and leaning surreptitiously away from Garak's mug – an uncharitable part of him wished he'd never introduced Garak to durian as a Terran substitute for Rokassa fruit.

"Feeling better?" Garak enquired, sitting down neatly in the deck chair next to Bashir.

"Much, actually." Bashir sipped his tea, comfortable in the here and now. The UVA-UVB mixture was not quite right but the sunshine felt good nevertheless.

"I was admiring the beach." Bashir put his drink down on the sand and started to get up. "But I guess we should get going."

"No need to hurry, my dear." Garak reached for his hand and pulled him back down into the chair. "Quark was very apologetic about the delay and promised me an extra hour of holo time. Apparently a drunk Klingon was being difficult."

"Customer of yours?" Bashir teased. He'd seen Odo escort the Klingon to the brig. Still holding Garak's hand, he realized that it would be prudent to let go, but with Odo busy he couldn't bring himself to do so. It felt too good.

"I assure you, Doctor, that I've had all the Klingon customers I desire." Garak shook his head, making an affronted face. His thumb traced Bashir's wrist teasingly, making Bashir's breath hitch. "Deplorable fashion sense."

"Unlike me." Bashir grinned, fishing for a reaction.

"Ah, but you, my dear, make up for it with a much more pleasant disposition." Garak took a sip of his durian juice.

"Why, thank you." Bashir smiled at that, taking the compliment for what it was, twining his fingers with Garak's. It was nice to know that Garak enjoyed his company.

Suddenly the air was filled with sharply clipped cooing sounds that had Bashir craning his neck to figure out where the commotion was coming from.

"What are those?"

Bashir pointed toward the lizards swimming close to the rocks.

"The O'ora? A bit of a pest, really. They get into everything," Garak complained, but there was fondness in his voice. "We can go feed them later, if you like."

Bashir nodded, then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The word _O'ora_ had not been included in his learning modules. Had Garak made it up? Was this like the soldier wasps? Was Garak trying to tell him something?

"I'd love to see them up close," Bashir agreed, mind afire with calculations.

He would play along this time. There was no way he'd miss another opportunity like that. Invigorated by the promise of a mystery to solve Bashir let go of Garak's hand and pushed himself out of the chair and stretched, enjoying the sea breeze.

"And I think I'm ready to go."

They walked down the gravelly beach following the coastline. The waves licked at the shore inches from their feet. Garak had rolled up his trousers and was walking barefooted at Bashir's side, careful to avoid the water.

The way Garak dodged the waves with an almost cat-like distaste for water made Bashir chuckle. Sudden and painful understanding that this was not just a reptilian idiosyncrasy came when the waves caught him unaware, licking at his feet from behind.

The frigid water churned around Bashir's ankles with icy, dragging force, making him stumble and suck in a pained breath. Bashir scrambled sideways, almost tripping over his own feet trying to escape the undertow. It tore at the sand beneath his feet, drenching his sandals with searing cold water.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Garak's steadying hand caught him and Bashir looked up into concerned eyes.

Bashir bent over and rested his hands on his knees.

"I'll live." Bashir panted, forcing himself to push past the pain.

Bashir cursed under his breath, surprised at how frigid the temperature was. Suddenly the trope of romantic suicides in Cardassian literature that involved throwing oneself into the bay to save the State made a lot more sense. Even humans would not survive much longer than an hour in water that cold.

"Where are we going?" Bashir straightened his back and shook his feet, feeling so much like a wet dog, trying to get the icy water out of his shoes. He tilted his head questioningly at Garak, and Garak gestured toward the dunes.

"The Imperial ruins are just around the bend."

Garak's hand brushed his and Bashir felt the by now familiar, electric shiver run up his spine. He resisting the temptation to reach out and hold onto Garak's hand again.

It would be nice if they could be more than this – Bashir thought wistfully – more than occasional meetings and even more occasional hook ups. He was aware that he was coming to like Garak more than was safe, and yet, even with the danger and the consequences of discovery, he couldn't, didn't keep away.

The path Garak had chosen cut deep into the dunes. Sparkling black sand partially covered by wooden planks outlined the way and made walking easier than on the shifting sands of the beach. Yet a few steps in, the reprieve of the ocean breeze was cut off and Bashir found himself panting and lightheaded in the oppressive heat of Cardassia Prime. Beads of sweat formed instantly on his forehead and began dripping down his neck, soaking the fabric of his shirt.

He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, flinging the sweat off to the side with a casual motion and sighed. The only thing that made the intense heat bearable was that the end of the path was in sight.

Struggling up the last couple of steps to the top of the nearest dune Bashir nearly stumbled over an O'ora as it darted across their path and scuttled up the steep, obsidian sides to the top of the dunes.

They kept on climbing and as soon as they stepped free of the oppressive calm of the dunes the breeze tugged at Bashir's sweat-soaked hair and clothes, gusting over his skin. Bashir turned his face into the breeze. It was a welcome relief.

The O'ora had stopped within view, clawed feet digging into the sliding sand as it reared up on its hind legs to hiss at another O'ora sunbathing on the rocks.

"We used to try and catch those as children!" Garak reminisced. He pointed to the fighting lizards as they flashed the emerald spotted fins at their necks in warning and threat, reminding Bashir of oversized Terran frilled-neck lizards.

"Did you sneak up on them?" Bashir smiled at the idea, then raised a suspicious eyebrow. Garak never gave away anything about his past without a reason. This had to be a clue.

"It does take considerable skill, my dear doctor." Garak nodded and started walking again, only to stop and turn when Bashir didn't follow him immediately.  
"You're more than welcome to try."

"I just might," Bashir grinned, thinking that once his senses had adjusted that would not provide a significant challenge.

The hissing and territorial posturing intensified and Bashir watched the O'ora with newfound interest wondering what exactly Garak wanted him to notice about them. What part did they play in the bigger mystery Garak wanted Bashir to decipher?

"Is it mating season?" Bashir enquired, trying to sound nonchalant, waiting for Garak to hand him another piece to the puzzle.

"No, my dear." Garak clicked his tongue in amusement. "If it were we wouldn't be able to hear our own voices over the noise, but the females are quite territorial as it is."

" _Interesting_." Bashir gave him a measured look, determined to outsmart his plain and simple friend this time around. "Which one do you think will win?"

Garak blinked at the question and Bashir had to suppress a victorious hah at Garak's reaction, smug that he'd caught Garak off guard.

"Most likely the one defending her territory," Garak replied after a moment, his voice carrying just the tiniest hint of bemusement. "She's got a brood of eggs to defend."

"Eggs?" Bashir narrowed his eyes and inspected the O'ora again. What could eggs stand for? Most likely the future, Bashir decided, intent on figuring this out.

"Yes, look over there, they are quite camouflaged but I am sure, my dear, that you can make them out among the pebbles." Garak stepped up behind Bashir's back, just a few millimeters away from touching, and pointed over Bashir's shoulder, his breath ghosting over Bashir's skin with every word. "If you'd like I can freeze the program and you can take a _closer_ look."

"Thank you." Bashir swallowed around his arousal, about to turn around and end this delicious torture with a kiss but then, instead pulled away slightly. "I'd love to."

As tempting as giving in to Garak was, this once he would not be distracted.

Garak let out a barely audible huff, but did as Bashir had asked.

The landscape froze in place after Garak uttered the command and Bashir kneeled down by the nest, inspecting the eggs. The sharp, obsidian sand stung his bare knees but he didn't care.

Garak tugged at the knees of his pants before crouching down next to him.

"I was wrong, Doctor." Garak's hand gently settled on Bashir's shoulders, tantalizingly sliding down to the small of his back.

"How so?" Bashir bit back a moan, trying to focus on the _other_ game they were playing.

"The younger one should win." Garak leaned in further, his hand squeezing Bashir's waist, pulling him closer.

"But what about the established order?" Bashir licked his lips, breathing shallowly. "Doesn't – uh –stability count for something?"

"Oh, there's a lot to be said for the status quo," Garak sighed and pulled away. He picked up one of the eggs, turning it this way and that, holding it up against the sun.

"But apparently the nesting female is too old to breed successfully." Garak crushed the egg between thumb and forefinger, a grim smile on his lips. He shook his head sadly, giving Bashir a sidelong glance. "Her shells have become brittle, few of her nestlings will hatch."

Bashir frowned at the broken egg, the blue yolk running down Garak's fingers in dark, blood-like trickles. From what he knew about the Cardassian government, it was rotten from within; oppressive and full of backstabbing, blackmail and scheming. Was Garak predicting its end?

Bashir's thoughts were drawn back to recent events. Was Garak supporting the rebellion? Everything spoke for it. Bashir had the strong suspicion that Garak was not only involved in Lang's escape but had played a major role.

But how did all of this add up?

Bashir considered his options. This had to be about Cardassia. The color-coding, the setting, it left no other conclusion.

When Garak restored the program and the O'ora resumed their fighting Bashir's mind went spinning.

Was both O'ora being female deliberate? The one prominent opposition leader he knew was Professor Lang. But then who was the older, bigger female? Bashir's eyes widened when he realized who it had to be. The Chief Archon Makbar!

The mini sub-routine came to an end and the younger O'ora sped off into the distance. She appeared again 32 seconds later, and Bashir watched them fight all over again. When the smaller O'ora ran off he got up and moved behind the nesting female. But while it was interesting to see her reaction to the intruder, even this change in perspective did not bring him closer to an answer.

"Doctor?" Garak held out a glass of water, condensation frosting the outside instantly. He nudged Bashir gently to take it. "Are you alright? If the heat is too much I can adjust the settings."

"Uh, no." Bashir blushed realizing that he hadn't even noticed Garak replicating the towel he was cleaning his hands with. He took the glass. "Thanks, Garak. I'm fine."

Garak was giving him a look that Bashir couldn't quite decipher and Bashir felt that he was missing something obvious, annoyed that he couldn't seem to figure out what it was.

"How do they mark their territories?"

"I have to admit I am not sure, my dear." Garak raised an eyeridge at him. "But if Cardassian fauna really interests you that much I shall see if I can find some naturalist books in the database."

"Thank you, I'd love to learn more about them." Bashir smiled at the offer. It would definitely help him figure out what was going on.

"But now, my dear, why don't we go see the attractions I wanted to show you?" Garak held out his hand in invitation, a faintly amused smile on his face.

"Of course." Bashir blushed, giving Garak and apologetic smile. He'd not intended on making Garak wait. "Lead the way."

-::-

When they reached the summit – and with that the end of the dunes – Bashir rested his hands on his knees, breathing hard. As much as his enhancements gave him an advantage, the feeling of being covered in a lead blanket due to Cardassia's higher gravity left its toll on his endurance.

The climb had been worth it, though. Once he'd caught his breath Bashir took in the marvelous sight of the ancient amphitheatre that spread out in front of them.

Carved from black and red pumice the crumbling remains of seventy-nine rows of seats fanned out in a semi-circle, cascading down the hill at a perfect fifty-degree angle. Even weathered and covered in vines it was a magnificent sight.

"It's stunning." Bashir straightened up and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his and hand. "These are the Imperial ruins you were talking about, right? Hebetian?"

"No, the Cardanar Civilization predates the Hebetians." Garak squatted down to pick a tiny white flower from amongst the crumbling stones.

"The Tal'kel has such a soothing scent, doesn't it?" Garak held the blossom to his nose, clearly enjoying the scent.

The creeping, thorny vine with tiny white blossoms had colonized most of the ancient stones and Garak closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, tasting the air.

Bashir followed his example and took a deep breath. The air smelled of ocean, sweat, hot sand and O'ora, but no flowers.

"I'm sorry, I don't smell anything." Bashir shrugged, intrigued. He crouched down to smell the white flowers closer up but to his disappointment, there was not even a hint of a fragrance either. He looked up at Garak, wondering if this was part of the O'ora riddle, or a completely new mystery.

"Are you getting a cold, my dear?" Garak gave him a concerned look. "It's almost overpowering."

"I'm perfectly healthy, but it seems humans can't smell them." Bashir raised a skeptical eyebrow at Garak, making a mental note to look up that flower later on.

"Do the O'ora eat them?" Bashir enquired, drawn back to the mystery Garak had set him to solve.

"No." Garak sighed then continued with a teasing undertone: "I could ask the computer to adjust the setting to your species’ more limited sense of smell?" Garak offered, his expression too innocent to be genuine. "It really is most pleasant. Some even say an aphrodisiac."

"Thank you for the _kind_ offer." Bashir rolled his eyes at Garak, used to his teasing digs at his _limited human senses_. "But that really is not necessary. Is this a theater?"

"No, my dear, these are the ruins of Archon, the spot where Cardassian justice was born. It's our oldest known court," Garak explained. "It is, incidentally, also one of the main settings in the novel I lent you."

The pride in Garak's voice made Bashir smile before he remembered that Garak was exiled. Banishing the sad thoughts, not wanting to ruin the mood Bashir pointed at the podium.

"So this is where they'd have the trial then?" He'd wondered about that, even though he'd only read the first chapter.

The podium that he had mistaken for a stage faced the half-moon shaped rise of seats, providing whoever was speaking with perfect acoustics.

"Yes, it must have been quite the spectacle. The records tell us that the trial could go on for days." Garak nodded to himself approvingly. "The crowd would gather here to hear the verdict and then later the offender would be executed over there." Garak pointed to a smoothly polished block of what looked like some kind of granite. "You can even still see the drain –"

"They beheaded them?" Bashir asked and sat down on one of the nearest, most stable looking blocks of red pumice and tried to envision what it must have looked like back in the day.

"Oh no, my dear." Garak let out an amused little laugh. "The priest would cut out their heart and present it to the crowd."

"That's rather gruesome."

"Of course we are more civilized these days. It was, after all, eight-thousand years ago, give or take a century." Garak gave him one of his condescending smiles that Bashir knew he shouldn't find as sexy as he did.

"I hope I have not offended your Terran sensibilities?"

"Far from it." Bashir snorted, amused by Garak's misconception about human history. "We weren't quiet as civilized back then either."

"I find that hard to believe, my dear." Garak raised a disbelieving eyeridge at him.

"I'll take that as a compliment, albeit a misguided one." Bashir started climbing down the rows of seats, eager to explore more. Then something occurred to him: none of the literary references to trials ever featured someone found not guilty.

"What happened if they were found innocent?" Bashir asked. He'd been meaning to for a while.

"Why would anyone be found innocent? This is a public trial." Garak tilted his head at Bashir, looking at him as if he'd just asked a very obvious question.

"But don't you present evidence for and against the accused?"

"Why would you do something as cruel as putting someone on trial, if you're not certain of their guilt?" The earnest horror on Garak's face shocked Bashir.

"A trial is cruel?" Bashir asked, truly baffled at the response.

"You'd destroy a citizen’s life, their reputation and that of their family without even knowing they're guilty? I find that cruel indeed."

Bashir took a deep breath and told himself to keep an open mind, to try and see this from a Cardassian's perspective, or as close to as he could come. It was true that in all the Cardassian literature Garak had given him the trial always ended in a guilty verdict. He'd not given it much thought then, but now it made horrifying sense.

"I wouldn't even get a chance to defend myself?" Now it was Bashir's turn to look shocked. When he'd read The Neverending Sacrifice he'd thought Kelen had stoically waved his right to defend himself; it had seemed in character.

"Why would you?" Garak gave him a confused look. "Your word would not mean anything; it is assumed that you would lie to save yourself. So why bother and waste everyone's time?"

"Then who pleads my case? I don't understand." Bashir tried to approach this logically. Garak's viewpoint was truly alien to him. This did not sound like justice at all. "I mean, what if they didn't do it? How would they defend themselves against, say, false accusations?"

"Oh, that doesn't happen. False accusations rarely get far," Garak explained with the air of someone reassuring a child. "When an accusation is made a clerk, with no attachment to the accused or accuser, is assigned to look into it. Most cases are dropped right then and there." Garak shook his head sadly. "The things people will accuse their neighbors of out of spite, it really is shameful."

Bashir glared at him, not appreciating being condescended to but he had to admit that Garak's explanation of the Cardassian justice system, within the construct of Cardassian society, almost made sense.

"Can you believe it, our gardener once accused my father of adultery – nothing ever came of it, of course – but the nerve the man had, and just because he wanted a raise," Garak continued, putting a friendly hand on Bashir's shoulder, leading him further down the seating and towards winding stairs hewn into the face of the rock.

"Come, Doctor, what I actually wanted to show you is this way."

-::-

The steps they climbed up the cliff were carved into the rock itself, ancient and uneven but when they reached the top of the cliff the view was more than worth the effort.

The steps ended in a small plateau open to the sea, a sheer drop into crystal clear water that foamed brilliantly white where the waves rolled onto the pebbled beach.

"It's stunning."

"It's called lover's cliff," Garak prompted and Bashir felt the shiver of anticipation run down his spine. It really would be a shame to waste this view.

"The view is rather romantic," Bashir hedged, inching closer.

"View?" Garak looked puzzled. "The view is nice too, I guess, but my dear have you already forgotten The Waves Touch Kinar Bay?"

"No, it's one of my favo–" Bashir's eyes went wide. He stared in horror at the deadly drop. Was this where ____ had thrown himself into the sea– "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, but I am." Garak stepped up close to the cliff's edge a hair's width from the drop.

Bashir followed him, watching a tiny pebble, disturbed by his footsteps, bounce over the edge. He whistled under his breath. That was quite a drop. 78.4 meters straight down into the churning whirlpool of a strong current.

"You are right, my dear, the view is indeed enticing." Garak leaned forward, peering over the edge for a long moment and Bashir put a hand on his friend's shoulder, uneasy despite the holo-safeties.

"But there's another tradition, my dear." Garak smiled and Bashir leaned in, expecting a kiss that never came. Instead Garak picked up a small, ragged pebble. "One, I think, you will find much more aligned to your human sensibilities."

Garak cradled the pebble in the palm of his hand, fixed his eyes on the horizon, then threw it over the cliff with a smooth flick of his wrist.

"You throw a stone thinking of the one you'd sacrifice yourself for."

Bashir blinked. Not at all what he'd expected but the idea did touch something in him, made his heart clench at the sentiment.

"That is actually romantic." He smiled then reached for Garak's hand and squeezed it. "In a very, very Cardassian way."

Bashir picked up a pebble himself, weighing it in his hand. It was roughly 50 grams. He closed his fingers around it, chagrinned that Cardassia's heavier gravity interfered with his enhancements.

Bashir followed Garak's example and fixed his eyes on to the horizon. Who would he sacrifice himself for? He wasn't sure he would. That he had chosen his secret over Starfleet time and time again made him feel guilty. The justification that more would live if he did tasted stale in his mouth.

He felt Garak's eyes on him. He wondered what he knew, if this was some kind of test.

Not being able to make up his mind, Bashir closed his eyes and threw the stone anyway. Maybe, he thought, that was an answer all by itself.

Who had Garak thought of as he'd thrown the stone?

That he couldn't answer that question, could not even make an educated guess brought home how little he actually knew about his _friend_.

"Computer: set time to sunset." Bashir grinned, pushing the maudlin thoughts aside. There was no point in dwelling on them now, they only had 19.3 minutes of holo-time left and he wasn't going to waste it.

Especially not with Odo busy babysitting drunk Klingons.

"Now," he pitched his voice low, seductive, and stepped up close to Garak, then leaned in, his fingertips caressing the ridge that ran down Garak ear to his chin, "let me show you what humans do on scenic spots like this."


End file.
